


House of Memories

by devaway



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Horrible Puns, Lily is a badass little girl, M/M, Psychological Drama, Some Romance, Stefano speaks in Italian, Violence, character cooperation, everybody is still trying to find Lily, mobius is horrible, probably some psychological horror, roughly follows the plot of TEW2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 13:13:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12482392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devaway/pseuds/devaway
Summary: "The STEM feeds off of the people inside it. It needs them to maintain balance. The Core is the best at providing this, keeping everything in check. Death inside STEM, especially on the amount we have seen..." Hoffman pauses."Go on.""It would be like slowly removing physical properties from our world, which explains the fragmentation. The less important properties go first, but eventually gravity and magnetism, things we rely on in everyday life, begin to unravel. Luckily, the Core acts as a fail-safe. I think that Lily is trying to help compensate for the difficulty you're facing, Sebastian, but subconsciously. That's why, well, you know."Sebastian looks at Stefano and takes a sip of coffee to clear his head. The artist has an eyebrow raised."That explanation is quite..." Stefano grins deviously. "...obscure."Sebastian spits out the coffee. In the midst of trying not to choke he is vulnerable and the artist steals the mug from him and finishes the liquid off himself.Hoffman just stares.





	1. Graphite

_“We live or die by the artist’s vision, sane or cracked.”—John Gardner_

 

There is, on the wall, tacked up with abandon and out of place compared to everything else, a drawing of Lily. Sebastian stops in his tracks before he fully realizes what he is doing. Around him, the world creaks and groans. Off in the distance, another street cracks open. More houses and buildings splinter, drawn into the void; Sebastian hears none of that. What he hears is the gentle rustle of paper and wind as he steps closer to the drawing.

It is mesmerizing.

The painful reality is that, over time, especially after Beacon, Lily’s face has begun to fade from Sebastian’s mind. Sure he sees her in his dreams, but that is Nightmare Lily, an amalgamation of guilt and fear and pain. The photo that Kidman gave him—that was the first time in a long time Sebastian had seen his real daughter, the one made of flesh and bone, not fire and wrath. But this drawing… is so realistic. It is like a photograph, but purer, more poignant. In the grey streaks of constructed light and shadows is a truthfulness, something real, here in a fake world.

Sebastian cannot help but reach out. Lily stares back at him, unblinking, not breathing, but for a moment, if only for a moment, Sebastian pretends his daughter is there. She is merely within arm’s reach.

Sebastian’s fingers brush over the paper. The graphite is silky smooth on his fingers. He caresses his daughter’s cheeks and his hands ache to brush her dark hair behind her ear like he always used to do. He tries to—fails. Lily’s hair is as stiff as a statue, more, even. Here she is two-dimensional. Just a drawing. Sebastian drops his eyes and hunches his shoulders together in in anger, in sorrow.

“Goddamnit. I’ll find you, sweetie, I promise. I’ll get you out—”

When Sebastian pulls his touch from the paper, his vision is overcome by a tell-tale blue sheen. Time slows. Sebastian feels himself going, losing control. He fights against the stagnation of the STEM that weighs heavily on his body. His mind struggles—he wins. Whirling around, Sebastian tightens his grip on the handgun. Its laser eye ghosts through the darkness as Sebastian’s heart beats. Shadows shift, congeal. A familiar form steps through. Sebastian grits his teeth. The effort it takes not to bite his tongue in half from fury is monumental. Neither man moves. The cut near Sebastian’s eye throbs. It quit bleeding a while ago. Myra always warned him he was too impulsive, but the pleas of memory fall on deaf ears. Sebastian squeezes the trigger and a bullet cuts through the blueness. Unsurprisingly, it does not find its mark. It ricochets off the side of a building to the right, lands somewhere in the bushes.

Stefano’s chuckle is more exasperated than amused now. Apparently death can do that to a man.

“So quick to anger. I was just hoping we could talk.”

A very forceful “fuck you!” is trapped on Sebastian’s lips. If Stefano’s desire is to talk, then that is exactly what Sebastian will not do. He swallows the words, steadies his hands, and waits. The artist is not quite as patient. A minute crawls by like a year, and then Stefano sighs. He moves forward, nearer to Sebastian, and Sebastian fires again. Again, he misses. Stefano waves his hand, rippling the blue like a sick god. The bullet whizzes past him, one more lost. Sebastian understands—he’s just wasting ammo. He keeps the gun raised regardless. It is a bad bluff.

“Come on, detective. We can work this out in a civilized manner.” The artist purrs. He leans into the air, just as cocky as before. He does not even look ruffled. His suit is again impeccable, his hair brushed expertly over his missing eye. The eye that he does have is fixed to Sebastian, unraveling him bit by bit with cool efficiency. He nods at the drawing. “Isn’t it nice?”

Sebastian remains silent. He clenches his jaw and Stefano smiles.

“It is quite candid, is it not? She did not even know I was drawing her.”

“You?” Sebastian growls. His voice grows from impulse. The indignation in that single word is unable to be ignored. His trigger finger itches, but he knows a shot would be in vain. The game is waiting, waiting. It is infuriating.

“Of course!”

“I thought your thing was photography.”

“An artist is hardly an artist if he is only proficient in one art.” Stefano dismisses, but a smile curves his lips. He brushes against the wall, shoulder leaning on the brick. He takes an edge of the drawing between his thumb and index finger—still gloved—with delicate movements. “I was not going to show this to you, but after our little quarrel, I could see how much she pained you. Think of it as a gift, please.”

“A lot of fuckin’ good it does me.” Sebastian seethes. “You could’ve just given her to me, the real Lily, if you were trying to be compassionate.” He leaves ‘…or some bullshit like that’ as an implied ending. It flies right over the artist’s head.

“Compassionate? You think I’m being…” Stefano trails off, his light eye wide and corners of his mouth curled up. He leads one hand to his mouth and covers it, almost bashful. His other hand clutches his elbow, red against purple, like a bruise. There he stands like a schoolgirl, but with a sadistic humor etched into his face. There is nothing innocent in the way his gaze drifts from Sebastian to the drawing and back again. There is a cold pit where Sebastian’s stomach should be.

There are a lot of should be’s in this STEM. For some reason, the fact that Stefano should be dead fails to hold its potency. Maybe it’s the drawing or maybe it’s because it’s nice to see an unmutated face; though pretentious and flamboyant, the artist is a hell of a better thing to look at than a young woman with no jaw and an old man chewing on intestines. It could even be the memory of that tremor in the artist’s voice just before he died, mournful of a future never to come. Unsatisfied with past that never fulfilled. All those things that should have been… whatever the reason, Sebastian is able to maintain his hate but not his wrath. Without removing his attention from the other man, Sebastian lowers his gun. He nods toward the picture.

“Give it to me.”

“After all that fuss… I’m glad that some art isn’t completely wasted on you, at least.”

Stefano reaches up, untacks the drawing. He appraises it for a moment, a vacant expression painted on his face, and then holds it out for Sebastian. Wary, the detective peers around, expecting something, anything. He does an ungraceful quick spin, still clutching the gun, but there is nothing there. He plucks the paper from Stefano’s grasp. The blue flickers, fades. When it is gone, Stefano remains.

“You did _that_ ,” Sebastian gestures around him, indicating time and space, “…to give me a damned _drawing_?”

“You can appreciate the drama, can’t you?” Stefano shrugs his shoulders. A street or two over, a familiar growl cuts through the air. The artist leans toward it, making a point. “I thought our meeting best not interrupted.”

“How thoughtful.” Sebastian dismisses. He gazes down at the drawing, sighs, and folds it in half. He sees Stefano flinch from the corner of his eye as he slides the rendering of Lily into his pocket, along with the picture Kidman gave him. Puzzle parts, he tells himself. He then looks back up, matches Stefano’s gaze.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“For you to try and kill me again.”

“No, I think not.”

Stefano shakes his head. Wisps of dark hair brush over his pale cheeks. Now that Sebastian knows what lies beneath that well-groomed curtain, noticing how frequently the wind and Stefano’s own movements threaten to reveal the mangled eye leaves a chill tracing his spine. He cannot imagine the pain and loss that must accompany such a… Sebastian kills that train of thought. _Brutal mutilation?_ That’s nothing compared to what Stefano did to those girls. A mental flash comes back: snapshots of Stefano’s “art.” Sebastian’s stomach churns, just a little, at the memories. He deepens his frown, disgust coloring his words.

“I thought I was your masterpiece or some shit like that.”

“Well,” Stefano muses. He combs through his hair with his fingers. “You still are.”

“And knowing what your “artistic tastes” are, why do you think I would let you anywhere near me?”

“I am already right beside you.”

Like a slap, Stefano’s words clear Sebastian’s mind. Grimacing, he realizes just how close they actually are. Having begun the conversation with Lily’s drawing a buffer between them, now that it is gone, the little expanse of brick wall is so… little. Sebastian jerks back, cursing himself for letting down his guard. He raises the gun again, steady fingers curling around the grip. He toys with the trigger. Stefano gets the message; the characteristic reaction would have been for him to draw his knife. But he doesn’t. Instead he backsteps—one, two—in slow movements. His hands are not raised but Sebastian notes the energy in the air. Stefano doesn’t want to fight. Farther than that, Sebastian feels as though he is an animal, feral and dangerous. The description matches how he feels.

Sebastian nods his head to the left and the short alley there.

“I’m leaving now. I don’t know how the fuck you survived, but I will kill you again if I have to.”

“Then why not now? After all the time you spent chasing me, cursing me, why let me walk away when you have the upper hand?”

“You’re making me think about it.”

“But you already know!” Stefano slips his hands into his pockets. Sebastian glares but the artist makes no sudden movements. “You know the horror of seeing people turn. All the citizens of Union were once innocent, normal people. Now they’re monsters, but all the better for you, no? You don’t want to kill real person, so you? And with me standing like this,” Stefano removes his hands from his pockets and spreads them at his sides. “You’re wondering if I’m still a monster.”

“You’re a fucking psycho—” Sebastian starts to yell. He chokes the words down as a Lost shambles into view. That one is easily taken care of. It falls a few yards away. But the two shots echo and more growls issue from the surrounding alleyways. Sebastian counts three, then five, seven, and stops counting. He’d wasted two shots on Stefano… Stefano!

The man is still against the wall, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He folds his arms across his chest, enjoying the scene, no doubt. Sebastian finishes off the Lost nearest to him, calculates time, and gathers the green gel pooling on the ground. He remains crouched, trading the pistol for his knife. When he glances to Stefano, under his calm and unaffected façade is approval, badly hidden in the frigid blue of his eye.

“Do something!” Sebastian seethes, the words cutting through his teeth in a furious whisper. Stefano tilts his head up, a gloved finger tapping his lips. He does not speak, he does not move. Sebastian mutters a curse and returns his attention to the growing horde of shuffling once-humans. One ignorant Lost breaks from the pack and moves right by Sebastian’s hiding place. Reflexes take over. He adjusts his grip on the knife and moves, lightning fast, to drive it home, first into the creature’s side, then skull. It falls beside him, death murmurs muffled, and also regurgitates an emerald slime. Sebastian ignores it in lieu of the more pressing matter: all around him, the world begins to shatter, again. The less-than-human _things_ continue their unceasing march. Some wander into caverns, crevices carved into streets, and fall, screaming, into the blackness. Their fellows give no pause. From his vantage point, Sebastian counts a couple dozen. He exhales, leaning against the cool metal crate for stability.

There are too many of them.

Sebastian glances up to the wall, expecting to see Stefano’s rigid form. There is no one there. _Bastard!_ It only figures the artist would save himself—how ironic, in the vast scheme, when he taunted Sebastian about running. Coward, damned coward! Psychotic piece of shit!

With hurried movements Sebastian counts his ammo. The number is numbing. His gaze darts around, fear throbbing in his veins. Fear and anger.

Across the street is a chain-link fence. It has a door and there are things within he could barricade it with. No, he’d just be trapping himself. Farther down the road to the left is a hedge. Maybe if he sprinted he could lose the one that would give chase; though the sonsofbitches are strong, they aren’t very smart. After a short respite in the bushes, he could head toward Hoffman’s safehouse. Perhaps, if he made it, there would be a fresh pot of coffee waiting for him. Sebastian licks his lips. His mouth had gone dry thinking of how many ways he could die, or worse. Some coffee would really help right now.

“Okay, okay.” Sebastian takes a deep breath. He gauges the distance of each Lost by their heavy footsteps. There are three near him. Not too bad.

Now or never.

Sebastian bursts from the cover. His steps are louder than he’d like. Behind him, the creatures cry out in unison, a song of blood and desperate craving. Sebastian does not look back. The sounds follow him, growls and whimpers… then there is something else. It is a sound Sebastian knows well: a static-y rip in what would be reality followed by the sweet high note of a razor sharp blade. Sebastian glances over his shoulder and stops at what he sees.

Half of the mob are down and unmoving. The other half swing at something that isn’t there. In their foolishness they maim each other. A rippling blue glare moves between the remaining, too quick to be fully seen. Sebastian doesn’t have to guess what it is.

The street is coated in the rancid gore of a pure bloodbath. Within the air is the stench of intestines, defecation, and plague. (Sebastian wishes he didn’t know what that smelled like.) What must be thirty, maybe forty bodies litter the pavement. In the middle, unsoiled, is Stefano Valentini. Sebastian just stares.

The artist is smiling, wide and sated.

Relief is the second thought to enter Sebastian’s mind. The first is the gritty meaning of what just happened: Stefano Valentini saved him. Stefano Valentini, a fucked up mistake in the randomness of human existence. Sebastian owes his life to a psychopathic artist with a taste for mutilation. Fuck that.

Sebastian turns and keeps running. His feet hit the ground even harder than before; the menace behind him is not as easily put down as dumb troops of diseased dead—he knows that now. His lungs burn from the exertion. There is a moment when he thinks he will throw up—and then Stefano is before him and the added anxiety allows him to veer off and maintain his sprint. But it’s hard to outrun something that can phase through the air like a ghost.

From seemingly nowhere, an arm shoots out, wrapped in a lavish purple sleeve. It catches Sebastian in the chest. He smacks the ground, landing on his back. His breath is knocked from his lungs and the crossbow presses painfully into his spine. Gasping, aching, he watches Stefano move to stand over him. The man shakes his head.

“You’re ungrateful.”

“Mo…tf…ker.” Sebastian manages. Stefano squats down, resting his arms on his knees and interlacing his fingers. The weight of his gaze is immense. Sebastian feels his breath return, but rather than yell out his hatred, the detective rests his head on the hard asphalt street. The sky above is forever dark, without even stars as a whisper of comfort. There is a light touch at his temple—Stefano brushes thick strands of gore and sweat-matted hair from Sebastian’s eyes. The gesture is deceptive. Sebastian grunts and slaps the hand away.

“Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

Stefano sighs. He does that a lot. His lips purse in thought, but the action is not conscious.

“I simply… cannot.” He says. “Good art traps the viewer, draws them ever closer to the essence of such…”

“What?”

“I just find I cannot leave you alone.”

“Shitty explanations are no good to either of us.” Sebastian says. He props himself up on his elbows, pauses for a breath, and then clamors to his feet. His chest hurts; Stefano had not hit him, but the inflexibility of his arm leaves Sebastian with food for thought: damn artist is strong.

“I find I am unable to articulate it any better than that.”

“Great.” Sebastian’s hand goes instinctively to the pocket with the photo, and now the drawing of Lily. “So what is your game, then?”

“My game? I simply know how beneficial it is to be on the side of power, is all.”

“Power?” Sebastian asks. He bites his lip to stop the dark chuckle bubbling up from his throat.

“Naturally. I’ve seen war, Sebastian Castellanos. I understand how important it is to come out on the winning side. History is written by the victors, my dear. No one else.”

Sebastian frowns at the explanation, his mind hung up on how similar this all is. History written by winners? Sounds quite like another psychopath Sebastian knew a little more than he would have liked. Sebastian sighs, runs a sooty hand over his face. Why is he a magnet for sociopaths?

“This isn’t quite a war.”

“You are not qualified to make that observation.” Something in the way Stefano tilts his head tells Sebastian that subject is better left in the shadows.

“Alright. But you honestly think I’m going to win?”

“You bested me.” Stefano shrugs. His voice holds bitterness and the movements of his shoulders is sharp, but the admittance holds no malice. “I admit I underestimated you, but as you can see, that is no longer the case.”

“So let me get this straight: you have no idea how you survived, but now that you’re back, you want to be my ally because I’m stronger than you.”

“Well, yes, but you’re not just stronger than me. Theodore betrayed me because I knew him for the useless, doctrine-driven coward he was. You will destroy him, I have no doubt.” Stefano affirms, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

Sebastian grins. “Nothing like switching sides, eh?”

“You would know that even better than I. You’re the one with the Mobius technology and agenda.”

The smile fades.

“I am not Mobius.”

“Are you sure?”

Sebastian’s steps are taken quickly. He looms over Stefano, gripping the other man’s suit in his fist, pulling him close enough to taste the scent of fury and coffee on his breath. Though Sebastian cannot see it, there is cold and clear murder in his eyes. Stefano can, and despite the situation, he smiles. Sebastian’s scowl deepens. The spotty lighting makes the lines in his face deeper; scars and premature wrinkles mark his skin like a map to despair. Stefano spots the newer, still red cut from his knife. He relishes it. How he wishes he had a camera. This one would have been perfect, a monument to anger and pain in equal measure, overflowing.

“If there is one thing I am positive of, it is that I _am not_ Mobius.”

“Then we are outcasts alike in goal and enemies. It would be a shame not to help one another.”

 


	2. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safehouses, coffee, a lie, and... Ruvik?
> 
> In which Sebastian learns nothing is as straightforward as it seems, even if it didn't seem straightforward in the first place.

There are certain things Sebastian Castellanos knows he will never understand, like how Myra infiltrated Mobius, or why Laura Victoriano cared for her sadistic little brother. But now, at the foremost of this list of incomprehensible things is why Stefano Valentini is following him around like a stray dog. The second is why Sebastian is allowing him to.

Stefano’s shoes make a slight click when he walks. Sebastian wonders if it is a show of goodwill, a display of comfort. Or maybe, judging by the way Stefano is playing with his knife, twisting and twirling it this way and that, the sharp steps are a side-effect of not paying attention. Sebastian tries not to stare, but his gaze wanders and his eyes find the artist’s one preoccupied. Sebastian briefly wonders what thoughts are running through Stefano’s mind--then his attention drops back to the nonchalant dancing of the blade and Sebastian decides it is better he does not know.

His hip aches. He tries to push it from his mind. Without warning, the familiar pain brings familiar memories. His thoughts drift to Joseph and his good-natured teasing. A flood of old man jokes come back like trash carried on the tide: many from Joseph, a couple from Kidman. Sebastian frowns, scratches his chin. Everything seems so long ago, now.

A high pitched screech snaps Sebastian out of his thoughts. He tenses  and spins, locating the Lost woman with ease. Two shots and she’s down. Sebastian holsters the gun and moves to the corpse, collecting the green gel the once-woman bled. When he returns, he scowls at Stefano.

“You could help me, you know. I don’t have a lot of goddamn bullets.”

“Mhm.” Stefano agrees, too busy pressing the tip of his knife into the tip of his finger to give a full response.

“I thought you were going to help me.”

“I will, when you need it.”

“Can’t you speak in plain English? I’m tired of everything being a damn puzzle.”

Stefano looks up, arches a brow, unimpressed.

“That was perfect English.” He says. “Would you rather I speak in Italian?”

“No.”

_“Ma caro, ci stai perdendo! È la lingua dell’arte e della cultura. È il modo in cui la mia voce dovrebbe suonare!”_

“What?”

Stefano rolls his eyes but offers no explanation. He slips the blade somewhere unseen and folds his arms across his chest. Sebastian turns away and resumes walking.

Taking Stefano with him to a safehouse is a horrible idea. Sebastian knows this. He also knows that he needs to check in with someone just to make sure he hasn’t finally lost it, not to mention his throat is about to start bleeding from dryness. Safehouses have operatives; more importantly they have coffee. Sebastian understands well enough that in STEM, every luxury, no matter how small, is a blessing. Besides, the inevitability hangs heavy over him: Sebastian would rather cause an incident on his own terms than compound an emergency on another emergency. And with Hoffman’s mental index of psychopaths, Sebastian feels she’s the safest to go to first.

They pause a street away. Sebastian stands to his full height and looms over the artist, trying to be imposing. It worked in the real world; he used to be a damn good detective, a damn good interrogator. Stefano, however, shows the opposite reaction than what Sebastian had hoped for. The artist seems to drink in the closeness. Sebastian suppresses a shiver. Even if intimidation tactics don’t work, the familiarity of the pose is comforting and old habits die hard.

“I’m going to tell you again: I will not hesitate to kill you. If I feel at all that you’re using me or anyone else we meet… if you get in my way of finding Lily I _will_ kill you again. As many times as it takes.”

Stefano clicks his tongue.

“Do you really believe I expected anything different?” His hand slips to Sebastian’s waist, lingers, and then slides to his hip. The touch is heavy and uncomfortably warm. Stefano taps the pocket with Lily’s pictures. “That is why I gave you a peace offering first.”

Sebastian reacts to the touch in stages. The first is a growl as he absorbs the message but does not process it. The second is the way his fist grabs a knot of Stefano’s suit and slams him up against a building. If more coherent, Sebastian would remember the little display of strength earlier--it wouldn’t take long to deduce Stefano’s lack of struggling is in fact cooperation. Emotions cloud that detective-level judgement, however, and Sebastian is content to believe he has the upper hand.

The artist laughs, this time throatier, deeper.

“I didn’t expect you to be so _eager._ ”

The words are too silky for Sebastian’s ears, too full of implications. He didn’t mean to raise his hand but now that he’s moving, Sebastian does not attempt to stop himself. The slap succeeds in tearing down the cool facade Stefano wraps himself in. His eye widens and his jaw goes slack, astonished. A few strands of hair are out of place and the dark scars over his right eye snake into Sebastian’s line of sight. He falters a little at just how _undone_ Stefano looks. Sebastian backs away, already tensing for a fight. It doesn’t come. In fact, the world seems calmer. There are no natural sounds in STEM, at least not anymore. If the Lost are not wailing and Sebastian isn’t moving, the only sounds are the beat of his heart and the inhale, exhale of his breath. That is how it is now; if Sebastian listens carefully, he can hear the little hitches in Stefano’s breathing. Other than that, the world is silent. The silence is more than terrifying. Sebastian clears his throat to be rid of it. Stefano reacts with a blink. He moves a hand to his cheek, slowly, as if he, in some ironic twist of fate, is the one caught in time.

“Do you know that no one has ever slapped me before? They’ve hit me, shot at me, and stabbed me, but I’ve never been slapped.” The artist’s voice is hollow, soulless. He blinks again and then his expression changes with the ease of donning a mask. He chuckles and fixes his hair with an absent-minded intensity.

Of the responses Sebastian planned for, that certainly isn’t one. He remains a few feet away, brows knit together, unsure. Part of himself wants to tell Stefano that he deserved it--that Stefano is a bastard and a slap across the face is much less than he deserves. But Sebastian doesn’t. Instead he watches the way Stefano preens: he smooths his hair down but it doesn’t stay. The artist removes a glove, licks his fingers, and tries again. To Sebastian, the grooming looks suspiciously like a nervous habit. That, in turn, holds an essence of humanity, no matter how small it is.

Sebastian turns away.

“Tell me… when you’re ready to go.” He says, facing the safehouse. Stefano hums behind him. Moments pass and then the man is at Sebastian’s side. He appears normal. His fingers run across the creases in his suit, failing to smooth them. Sebastian doesn’t want to look at him--so he doesn’t. He starts toward the safehouse, confident that Stefano will follow, and he does.

\--

The door to Hoffman’s safehouse creaks when Sebastian opens it. Hoffman sits in front of him but faces the opposite direction. Before the two men entered, she had been furiously typing away on the computer; the sound echoed out into the hallway. The taps trail off as Sebastian clears his throat.

“Oh, oh my God! I thought you--” the young woman whirls in her swivel chair. She cuts herself off at the sight before her. Against her midnight black hair, Hoffman visibly pales.

“Yeah, not exactly how I’d thought it would go either.” Sebastian grunts. He rolls his eyes in Stefano’s direction. The man is busy appraising the facility. From the way he purses his lips, he is obviously not impressed. Sebastian is worried he might start in on how drab the decor is or something. He doesn’t. The artist’s attention drifts to Hoffman and Sebastian cringes at his words.

“My, aren’t you a beauty?” He purrs. “Mobius got lucky, didn’t they? Intelligence and looks, why, you should be covetous of such good fortune.”

“Sebastian, who is this?” Hoffman’s question comes out like a plea. Not for the first time, Sebastian wonders if this was a good idea after all.

“Hoffman, Stefano Valentini. Stefano, meet Agent Hoffman.”

“A pleasure, my dear.” Stefano inclines his head.

Hoffman’s expression begins as shock that morphs into confusion that then moulds itself into anger. She grips the armrests of her chair and leans forward, each of her movements sharp and precise.

“What? Are you aware… Sebastian are you _serious_?”

“No, not really. Not sure if anything I do can be serious anymore.” Sebastian grimaces, then adds: “He did say he’s not out to kill me. I thought I’d take a chance.”

Hoffman flicks her attention between the two men. Though he’d never admit it, Sebastian has his tail between his legs--slouched, rubbing his neck, he looks like a schoolboy who just broke his grandmother’s window. Priceless window. No, more like his grandmother is the Pope and he’d just been caught spray painting some of the frescoes in the Sistine Chapel. Hoffman rubs her temples. Apt comparison, she scolds herself. It was even about art--art. Speaking of which, she allows Stefano to drag her eyes toward him. It is subtle, a dog whistle only psychologists can hear. From a purely scientific standpoint, the man is amazing. He is a walking textbook example. Hoffman studies him. She also berates herself while she’s doing it. She can’t help the insecurities floating through her mind: _did I have his profile, am_ I _to blame?_

Stefano enjoys being studied. He enjoys the attention. Sebastian watches the mental tug-of-war between the madman and the analyzer with a tired perception. The only true exhaustion in STEM is psychological. Still, there is no more appealing concept right now than a good nap. Or maybe a full night’s sleep. Sebastian knows he will get neither.

“Sebastian?” Hoffman’s voice is ice as it cuts through the stillness of the room. “Have you called Kidman?”

“Why--” Sebastian is cut off by the intensity of the profiler's glare. Hoffman’s playing a game. Sebastian looks down, collects himself. He should have known. “No.” he finally answers.

“Don’t you think it would be a good idea?”

Sebastian stays silent, trying and failing to follow the agent’s ploy. Aware of his struggling, the agent elaborates.

“She’s the one who dug up information for you. Don’t you think she deserves to know this recent development?”

He doesn’t want to say so, but Sebastian is clueless. He bluffs, attention wavering between Hoffman and Stefano. The former is focused on the latter and the latter appears lost in the seams of his gloves. It his no real surprise when he speaks--Hoffman, at least, had been waiting.

“So you _do_ have someone on the outside.”

Hoffman feigns an outraged expression, or Sebastian thinks she does. He cannot be sure he did not just fail, completely and utterly, at the task she had given him. Sure it was unexplained, but… Sebastian hold a sinking feeling in his gut.

“What?” Hoffman spits. Her laugh, when tumbling from her lips is calculated, maniacal. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Too bad that’s not the case. Kidman’s our lead tech. She’s also the most familiar with the Union population, you included. But she’s stuck in here just like the rest of us. There’s no contact with the outside world, Mobius included, until the Core is found.”

It is nearly impossible for Sebastian not to react. In his mind he cheers: Hoffman, you brilliant woman, brilliant!

“Such a pity, really. But a prison is only a prison to a person who wants out.” Stefano says. He turns to Sebastian, bored of the conversation, bored of the uninspiring Mobius agent. Pretty but tainted, tainted just like the rest of them. “What did we come here for? So far it’s been a waste of time.”

“To rest. To debrief. It’s important to keep _allies_ informed.” Sebastian shrugs off the word. The deceit, now that is has caught on, is easy to create, easy to sell.

“Speaking of which, I found some ammo for you in the other room, Sebastian. It’s hidden and a little too far for me to reach. I’m sure you can get to it.”

Obediently Sebastian wanders to the room Hoffman indicated, knowing full well there was no ammunition on the shelves before. He counts to twenty and then reemerges.

“Where?”  
Hoffman sighs and stands from her chair. She casts a glance back to Stefano.

“Don’t touch anything.”

“As if I would be so inclined to meddle with such mundane…” his sentence trails off as Hoffman walks away. He watches her disappear around the corner, a disappointment, very disagreeable woman.

Sebastian is leaning against the wall when Hoffman appears. Wide eyed with an impressed grin, he opens his mouth to speak but the young woman catches his wrist and shakes her head. She holds up a finger and then pulls a scrap of paper from her vest, a pen from her pocket. Hurriedly she scribbles a note. Stuffing the pen back in place she plucks three bullets from her vest. She nods, gives the items to Sebastian, and returns to the main room without a word. Sebastian pockets the ammo, clutches the note. If he can say anything endearing about Mobius, it is that they do not allow for incompetence.

Sebastian smiles at the note as he reads it.

_I gave you a pass, use it. Call Kidman, tell her the sit. And no I don’t know why/how. Will research. Be careful. Come back soon._

Sebastian is still smiling when he rips the note in half, crumples it, and sticks it in his other pocket. He dismisses the smile when he steps back into Stefano’s line of sight. Hoffman is back at the computer but instead of typing she’s staring at the screen with her fingers laced into a bridge for her chin. Stefano is perched in the corner, sitting on a desk with his legs crossed before him. Neither react to Sebastian’s presence and so he pours himself a cup of coffee just as much to distract himself from the strange aura as to quench his thirst. He stands there, drinks, and is acutely uncomfortable in the heavy silence. He focuses on the dark liquid. In some ways the heat and the silence are meditative--

The communicator at his side screeches.

“Sebastian?”

Kidman’s voice is broken by static but the urgency of her tone carries over. Sebastian slams the mug down and pulls the device from his belt. Long waves of interference ring throughout the room. Hoffman spins around and Stefano has his head tilted up, monitoring the scene with a half-interested grin. Sebastian ignores him and flips through frequencies. Kidman isn’t clear on any of them.

“One area...Union…--gone. Core cont--failing...monitoring...vital--spike. Seb--an you… Lily has… part--aware… situat--changed.”

“Kidman? Kidman I can’t--”

A high pitched screech fills the safehouse. Hoffman groans and moves to cover her ears. Stefano, surprisingly, does the same. Sebastian doesn’t. Through the pain comes remembrance. Through the pain comes memories. There was a car, a hospital, a tormented genius, his sister, and a house. A house that held memories. A house of murder and of science. A house where Sebastian walked in nightmares and ill-tailored realities where snippets of lives melded together. A grand house. Then there was a house on fire. A house of memories that went up in flames.

Years ago, in that other STEM, memories and tragedy melded together under the command of one mind. Has it been years? Days? Hours? Minutes? What was it that Hoffman said? Time has begun to fracture.

The scene of the safehouse collapses around him. Sebastian stands still, gripping the communicator with aching white fingers. His memories, all of them, flash in and out of reality. Monsters with claws graze his shirt before dissolving into gray matter. Lily’s screams echo in the darkness. A rasping voice declares ownership of mind and body and soul. Myra’s sobs mix with the crackling of burning wood.

And then he is back. Sebastian returns to the safehouse, feet planted exactly where they were before, Hoffman’s expression the same. Stefano is in the corner, leaning forward. A small trail of crimson snakes into his mouth from his nose.

And in the farthest corner of the room is a young woman dressed in red. She smiles. Then the red flickers to white, black hair turns to a hood. Feminine turns to masculine, and Sebastian draws back from the familiar figure. But it doesn’t move, because it isn’t real. Because it can’t be real.

Hoffman lifts her head. Stefano wipes the blood from his lips. The communicator is silent. Ruvik remains still.

It doesn’t matter. Sebastian draws his gun, form rigid.

“Sebastian what are you--” Hoffman begins.

“Shut up. Get behind me.” Sebastian jerks his head at her. She stands, shaking, and complies. His gaze slides to Stefano, narrowed eyes meeting narrowed eyes. He leaves the artist be. Sebastian focuses again on Ruvik, or what looks like Ruvik. It can’t be Ruvik. _This is a completely different STEM._

“The fuck do you want?”

The figure doesn’t answer.

“How the fuck did you get here?”

“Sebastian there’s no one--”

“Did _you_ know about this?” Sebastian whirls. He points the gun at Hoffman. She backs away, her hand hovering over her hip. “Did you know _he_ was still in here?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!”

“Ruvik! Fucking _Ruvik_! Ruben Victoriano! The psychopath who created STEM, Mobius’ first fucking Core!”

“Sebastian, calm down. There is no one there.”

Sebastian shakes his head. He turns to Stefano.

“Do you see him?”

The artist scans the room, usual humor absent. “No.”

“Fuck.”

The figure in the corner remains. Sebastian lowers his gun.

“They can’t see you.” he says. “But I can. And I’m done playing this game.”

There is a whisper as Ruvik tilts his head. He extends his arm, attention focused on something behind…

There is a breeze at Sebastian’s side, a giggle. Lily brushes past him, dressed in pink pyjamas, clutching her favorite bear. Sebastian forgets how to speak. Lily doesn’t look at him. She looks at Ruvik in the corner, with an outstretched hand. She runs past, laughing, dark hair bouncing with each step. She reaches Ruvik’s side and clasps his scarred hand in her tiny one. She turns, smiles, and then is gone. Both are gone. The corner is again empty.

Sebastian’s breaths come in deep pants. Hoffman moves behind him and grabs his gun. He doesn’t care. He bangs his hip against the table and collapses on it for support. His vision blurs in front of him; his heart beats almost painfully in his chest. _Breathe, breathe._

The communicator chirps.

“Sebastian?” It’s Kidman’s voice. Sebastian doesn’t remember moving, but the communicator is again in his hand.

“Yeah?”

There is a long pause and then a deep sigh. “Things have… changed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a trip, and it was a trip to write. Here's where I take the story of TEW2 and royally screw it up! Sorry for any editing errors. I typed this super fast because I have something to be at...  
> Also, huge thanks to one of my best friends for Stefano's Italian. He's supposed to be reading this. (So Guacamole, if you're reading this... hi.)
> 
> As always my dears, if you like the story please leave a kudos/comment! It really brightens my day!


	3. A Creative Type of Insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad conversation, a couple mental breakdowns, and the age old war between the arts and the sciences.
> 
> In which Sebastian learns about the maintenance of STEM, Ruvik's plot is recognized, and Stefano steals Sebastian's coffee.

Sebastian’s body is too heavy for him. He sits in Hoffman’s chair, head in his hands, sure that the weight of Kidman’s words will bring the world down around him. Actually, they kind of are.

_ “I know this is a lot to take in, but you have to get back out there.” _

“How the fuck did this happen?”

Kidman sighs over the communicator. Her breath comes out like a crackle of fire in the room. Sebastian looks to Hoffman; she’s rubbing her temples like she has a migraine. She probably does. But even through the pain her eyes are clear, attention focused inward, trying to unravel this impossible puzzle. Stefano remains on the desk, his legs crossed under him. He holds a tissue to his nose and looks positively unamused about the nosebleed.

“Kid?”

_ “I can’t say how it happened, Sebastian.” _

“Guess.”

_ “Okay, fine. I think it has something to do with you. Your history in STEM. There’s no one like you, no one that’s gone in unprepared, come out unprepared, and then gone back in. No one. You’re the first. So, there are a lot of unknown variables here.” _

“Did you not think about that before you came to me?” Sebastian asks, his grip on the communicator growing ever tighter. “Or is this another little experiment? We both know how much Mobius likes its experiments!”

The anger in Sebastian’s voice goes unanswered. Hoffman groans and looks away.

“Kidman? Kidman, you better answer me!”

The voice that replies is not Kidman’s, though Sebastian knows it. He wishes he didn’t.

_ “Castellanos, I need to make something absolutely clear to you.”  _ The Administrator’s voice echoes. It carries, sharp and clear over the communicator, almost as if he is there. Hoffman jumps, her eyes wide for a split second before she regains composure. Sebastian would pity her if his mind wasn’t otherwise occupied.

“I bet you planned this, didn’t you? You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

_ “Whether or not I planned for this occurrence means nothing to you. But now that it has happened, you are going to follow my orders.” _

In the corner, Stefano snickers. Sebastian’s assertion of earlier comes back to haunt him.

“I’m not one of your cronies.”

_ “But you daughter is. She is mine, and if you want any chance of seeing her again, you must listen to what I am going to tell you.” _

Sebastian grinds his teeth but nods. 

“Fine. Go on.”

_ “Our first successful STEM utilized an aware core. I am sure you remember what repercussions that caused. The consensus was, upon development of another STEM, to use a core which was clean, if you will. A young child was the perfect candidate. There were few emotions to conflict with the algorithms of the machine, too few, even, to respond to the inevitable fluctuations of the citizens. Your daughter was chosen for her blankness. What understanding she did have was based only around happiness and contentment, which proved no danger to the project.” _

“You’re saying Lily was the best core because she was  _ happy _ ?”

_ “In essence, yes. If it’s any consolation, the short years she had with you and Myra were filled with nothing but good memories. There were no dark whims to cloud her consciousness, nothing that could be turned to a threat. But, she had the capacity for such things. The core--Lily, if you wish--possesses a genius level intellect, similar to our last core--” _

“Don’t you dare say they’re anything alike!”

_ “...though the trauma experienced in Ruben Victoriano’s youth stayed with him, made him volatile. Your daughter was a match in terms of intelligence and empathy, but purer. In order to make her stay that way, it was our goal to keep her unaware. Her body and her conscious mind are in an induced coma. She does not and never did know what happened.” _

“I can’t believe this!”

_ “You don’t need to. You just need to do as I say.”  _ The Administrator’s voice grows darker. He is unused to being challenged, and Sebastian can tell.

“Then what? What is it that Kidman was saying?”

_ “The core has… become aware. She has awakened in STEM. Her vitals spiked half an hour ago and set off an alarm. We’re still unsure of what happened to allow this breach.”  _ The Administrator pauses.  _ “I would not be telling you this unless I knew you knew the cause.” _

“Damn right I know the cause. It’s Ruvik. He’s back and he took Lily.” Sebastian hunches forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees. He pretends the communicator is the Administrator’s neck; his hands tighten around it until his knuckles and fingertips are white from the effort.

_ “That is… unfortunate.” _

“Sure, sure it is. Just tell me how to save Lily!”

There is a breath of static as another person responds.

_ “Sebastian.” _ Kidman soothes.  _ “I don’t know if, given the circumstances, we can save her. What the Administrator was saying probably sounds weird to you, but human purity is a thing. I told you before I worked with Lily. If what you’re saying is true and Ruvik has managed to invade this STEM, his influence on her won’t be reversible. If you don’t reach her in time…” _

Kidman trails off. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Sebastian runs a hand through his hair. His gaze falls on Stefano. So much for trying to keep the artist in the dark.

“Hey Kidman?”

_ “Yes?” _

“How much could Lily influence the STEM?”

_ “She has no training in warping it, but because she’s the core, she would be able to have the same influence Ruvik did.”  _ Kidman sighs again. Sebastian can imagine she’s shaking her head.  _ “You need to find her. There’s no telling what might happen.” _

“Well how do I even start? Ruvik would take her someplace I can’t go!”

_ “Sebastian, my hands are tied. I can’t offer help like that.” _

Sebastian begins to argue, but his words falter. He turns back to Stefano. The artist is staring at him with a smirk. 

“Alright. Alright I’ll go find her.”

_ “Good luck--” _

“Kid, tell the Administrator that I won’t be of any use if I don’t know what’s going on. If he wants to use me, he’s going to have to keep me informed.”

Silence.

“Did he get that?”

_ “Yeah, yeah he heard it. Be careful Sebastian. Please.” _

Sebastian sets the communicator down on the table. He swivels in the chair to face Hoffman. She meets his eyes and blinks, slowly.

“You’re thinking I have a theory.” She accuses.

“Exactly. What is it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Life’s fucking complicated. Just shoot. I’m not a complete idiot.” Sebastian says. From the corner of his eye he can see Stefano smile.

“The STEM feeds off the people inside it. It needs them to maintain balance. That’s what the Administrator was saying about emotions and frequencies. Emotions that are too strong will funnel the coding into… bad outputs. STEM needs the people inside to be emotionally balanced so that it can maintain technological balance. The core is the best at providing this because their emotions dictate most of direction of the frequencies. It keeps everything in check. That’s why it’s important to have a blank slate, someone stable. But death inside STEM, especially on the amount we have seen…” Hoffman pauses.

“Go on.”

“It’s already had an effect on Lily. Her neutrality is slipping, and so is the balance. The effect is like slowly removing physical properties from our world, which explains the fragmentation. The less important properties go first, but eventually gravity and magnetism, things we rely on in everyday life, begin to unravel. The core should have acted as a failsafe for this overload, but she’s fallen into it. This awakening also has some advantages to her, but she can’t possibly know how to use them. But… I think Lily  _ is  _ trying to help compensate for the difficulty you’re facing, Sebastian, but subconsciously. That’s why, well, you know.”

Sebastian groans and reaches for his coffee mug. It’s still warm as his fingers wrap around it. He tries to relish the scent, to relax, even if only for a few seconds. 

Across the room, Stefano arches like a cat and stands, folding the bloodied tissue with delicate movements. His nosebleed has stopped. There is a tiny stretch of red above his lips but Sebastian is content to let Stefano figure that out for himself. The artist strolls to a trashcan and drops the tissue in. His movements are too calm as he walks over to Sebastian and glances down at him. He then looks over to Hoffman with a raised eyebrow and a quirk to his lips.

“That explanation is quite…” Stefano grins deviously. “Obscure.”

Sebastian spits out the coffee he had just sipped. It flecks the table and the monitor of Hoffman’s computer. In the midst of trying not to choke he is vulnerable and the artist steals the mug from him and finishes the liquid off himself.

Hoffman just stares.

“I could elaborate, if you want.” She offers, as if the scene before her is normal. When no one responds, she sighs and begins to wipe the computer screen off with her sleeve. She frowns at the stains forming on her shirt.

“The  _ fuck _ ?” Sebastian yells. He drags his hand over his mouth and is torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to murder Stefano, again, right there. Not for the first time, Sebastian wonders if he’s lost it. “What was that about?”

“A change of subject, to lighten the mood.” Stefano’s answer is flippant, punctuated by the way he waves his hand. He smiles over the rim of the cup. “In all fairness, though, I must ask Ms. Hoffman to explain again.”

“Lily brought you back from the dead.” The woman drawls. Stefano stiffens, not expecting the ease with which she says the words, nor the bite they hold. She pauses in her cleaning and tilts her head back over her shoulder. “That’s my theory, anyway. Condensed version.”

“But  _ why _ ?” Sebastian questions. Stefano glances to him and finds himself equally perplexed.

“I don’t know! Kidman doesn’t know! The Administrator doesn’t know! No one knows anything, and as far as I am concerned, I am still a somebody!” Hoffman’s voice cracks on the last sentence and her shoulders draw up to her chin. She starts to cry, the sobs loud and ragged. Sebastian scrunches his eyebrows together and stands. Hoffman flinches away from his attempted touch.

“Calm down.”

“No! This isn’t anything like they told us it would be! It was routine, they said. Basic fixes, they told us! None of us were prepared and now we’re all going to die.”

“Hey, no. We’re not going to die. I made it out of STEM before--”

“Barely!” Hoffman laughs through her tears. “I studied the Beacon Incident, remember? I studied it for months and months! I know everything about it, everything about  _ you _ . And you barely made it out. Ruvik… if he’s here he’ll want revenge on all of us. I’m Mobius and you’re the one who screwed up his plans before.”

_ “E io?” _

Hoffman turns to Stefano, her face red. 

“You took his design and polluted it. He won’t be happy with you either.”

The artist takes a step back but feigns it with a cough. Sebastian shakes his head and returns his attention to Hoffman.

“Listen, I’ve fought him once. I’ll do it again.”

Sebastian matches Hoffman’s gaze. Her eyes sparkle under the harsh lights, the skin around them red and puffy. She pleads with him, silently, in that look. It is pure anguish.

“That’s not what I’m worried about, Sebastian. I’m not worried about you fighting Ruvik. I’m worried about you having to fight your daughter.”

The words slap Sebastian across the face. He gets it, finally. That’s the plan. He could never hurt Lily. It wouldn’t matter if she was a monster, even if there was no physical resemblance. Sebastian would know, as a father, who his daughter was. And he could never hurt her.

Sebastian collapses heavily back into the chair. Why didn’t he realize it before? What fighting spirit he once had was gone. Hoffman cries at her desk and Sebastian feels he might do the same. He thinks back to the happier days, with Myra, with Lily, when they were a family. The picture and the drawing burn in his pocket as though they are already representations of a dead little girl. Sebastian can’t let that happen. There, then, is the conundrum: he cannot allow Lily to be warped at the hands of Ruvik but even if it happened, he could not bring himself to kill her. There’s no point in lying about it.

Tears stream down Sebastian’s cheeks but he doesn’t feel them. He feels the loss, the anger, and that deep hole of bitterness. It’s the occasional spite that wells up inside of him and makes him want to run away from it all. Give up everything. Forget it even happened. That idea is knife sharp and it cuts into him. He feels it as it carves him out, leaves him hollow. And then he feels something else, too. There are hands at his cheeks, wiping the tears away.

Stefano clicks his tongue as Sebastian’s gaze drifts toward him. 

“It is a pity I could not reap the same response from you. Your sorrow is endearing.” 

Stefano taps Sebastian’s cheek and tilts his head. The caress is almost caring, almost loving.

“I told you once you would be my masterpiece, didn’t I? No artist would sit by and allow their work to be desiccated as such. This other man you speak of obviously would not cherish you like I would, not in life, especially not in death.”

“And?” The word breaks in Sebastian’s throat.

Stefano scoffs and rolls his eye.

“ _ And?  _ You’re obviously not getting the point I’m trying to make.”

“Then just say it for Christ’s sake!”

“I’ll help you. There. Is that transparent enough?”

Sebastian stares, blinks. He leans away from Stefano’s touch and Stefano allows him to go. Distrust is draped over his face like a wedding veil, like a burial shroud.

“Why are you going to help me?”

“You are not in a position to demand answers. The longer you wait, the greater the danger for your Lily.”

A moment passes in silence where Sebastian holds his breath and Hoffman stops crying. Then Sebastian nods. He stands, pushing himself up from the armrests of the chair. He feels haggard, old. He finds Hoffman’s gaze and licks his lips. 

“Is this a good idea?”

“No.” The young woman says. “But you don’t have any choice.”

Sebastian sighs and scratches his neck.

“No choice.” He echoes.

_ No choice _ .

“Are you done moaning now?” Stefano quips. He holds out the empty coffee mug for Sebastian to take, shaking it to demand attention. There is an aura of renewed energy about the artist. It’s sickening, worrying. Sebastian snatches the mug and takes it back over to the coffee maker. He pauses, thinking about all the times he and Joseph shared a coffee together. If no one had done the dishes at the office, sometimes they’d share, just like how... Sebastian shakes that memory from his mind like ash from his hair.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” He says, willing his voice not to quiver.

Stefano drags his gaze over him with unhidden glee, like it’s an adventure, like it’s an epic. Like it’s a work of art, a patchwork work, stitched together with the bones and blood of the damned and the unfortunate.

“Wonderful, wonderful!” He declares. The singsong tune is out of place. 

Before Sebastian can utter another word, his sight is assaulted with rifts of blue and white. The scenery changes in a split second and he finds himself in the lobby of the gallery, a place he never thought he’d be again.

“I hope you don’t mind making a short detour first.”

“What… for what?” Sebastian cringes at the waves of sickness brought on by the sudden teleporting. He looks down at his shoes and swallows.

“Walk with me.” Stefano commands. “And tell me about Ruvik.”

“He was a psychopath.” Sebastian comments, falling into step with the other man. “Like you, but worse.”

“Worse? I never thought I’d hear you say such a thing.”

Sebastian chuckles darkly.

“He caused pain to cause pain. You at least have a reason for what you do. Ruvik’s motives were more sinister. Yours were a nuisance.”

Stefano stops mid stride and turns to face Sebastian. The mixture of reactions on his face is indecipherable. Sebastian raises his brows and waits for a rebuke. Stefano narrows his eye but then turns on his heel and continues walking.

“You’re so simple minded.”

“I never claimed to be anything else.”

“But you’re a detective. It’s your job to see past the ordinary, to find the extraordinary in what is hidden. I cannot see what went wrong with you.”

Stefano halts outside of a small door at the end of the hall. He reaches out and brushes his fingertips over the handle. A small click sounds and then he opens it, the hinges silent.

“After you.”

Sebastian glowers but enters. The room is filled with cameras of all sizes and shapes. They’re far from ordinary. The characteristic blue light that covers the room is almost blinding. There are shadows and shapes of things cast on the walls that aren’t there. Silhouettes. Ghosts.

“Tell me more about Ruvik.”

“He was a scientist, or he would have called himself that. He was a murderer. Thought his goal was worth more than other people’s lives.” Sebastian grins. “Another thing similar between you too. Maybe there was a lost third Victoriano child.”

Stefano is bent over one of the cameras that is set up on a tripod. No glow comes from its lens. Sebastian decides it must be off.

“Your Ruvik had siblings?”

“Yeah. And he’s not  _ my _ Ruvik.” Sebastian suppresses a shudder. “He had a sister, Laura. She died in a fire. Sacrificed herself to save her brother, but that’s where Ruvik got the burns. I always suspected there was something strange between them. He was--still is, I bet--fucking obsessed with her.”

Stefano hums, inspecting the camera and its various dials and buttons. Sebastian leans in to see it better: it is far from a normal looking camera. There is no display on the back and no viewfinder. The only part that looks camera-esque is the retractable lens on the front. Sebastian studies it, contemplating what use it could possibly have until he realizes how far he’s leaned over Stefano’s shoulder. The artist clears his throat and Sebastian draws back, a frown on his face.

“What the fuck is that thing?”

“An interesting project of mine. But don’t worry yourself about it now. I have something to show you, something that will help us, but you must promise me not to be alarmed when you see it.”

“Alarmed? After all I’ve fucking seen already? Come on, don’t…” Sebastian’s voice trails off as the door behind him opens and clicks shut. Sebastian turns slowly, hyper aware of the weight of his pistol at his side, the crossbow at his back, and the knife on his belt. He turns, uncertain of what to expect. What he sees is the last thing he expected.

“J-Joseph?”

The man is there, before him, skittish until his gaze meets Sebastian’s.

“Sebastian? Where the hell am I?” Joseph asks. “Is this STEM?”

“Yes, but it’s a different STEM. I don’t… how did you get here?” Sebastian moves closer, his arms out in front of him, but Joseph shies away from the contact. 

“How do I know you’re you?” his partner asks, the familiar carefulness heaped thick onto his words. His eyes flick up and down Sebastian’s form and he pushes his glasses up just like he used to do. 

“I’m me.” Sebastian assures, resting his hands on his chest. “It’s me, I’m real. I’m alive. Really, I’m here.”

Joseph opens his mouth to reply but doesn’t get the chance. The colors of his clothes, his skin, his hair, begin to bleed into the air and dissipate like smoke. His shape becomes a hollow blue that shines around the edges, pixelated, until he disappears entirely. Sebastian stares, tears burning hot behind his eyes.

Across the room, Stefano moves toward him, his steps resounding throughout the high-ceilinged gallery.

“You say Ruvik is a scientist. As a scientist he covets facts. Art is different. It need not rely on such rigid rules. In a battle, art would win over science every time.” Stefano’s words hold his smile, satisfied and smug. Sebastian’s anger withers under the more pressing issue of confusion.

“What do you mean?” Sebastian asks, not meeting the artist’s eye.

“Ruvik will work in black and white, like he always does. It’s a tried and true method. The  _ military _ is the same.” Stefano spits the word. “But if you want to win, you have to get creative. You must use everything to your advantage. You said Ruvik loved his sister, that she was his muse.”

“Yes.” Sebastian states, understanding crashing upon him in a frigid wave. “He wanted to bring her back from the dead.”

Stefano smiles and nods toward the camera.

“And so we shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH guys I actually have a plot sort of. My muse struck me over the head with a baseball bat and handed me a Monster energy drink and out came this beauty. I can't tell if it's genius or stupid. But anyway here it is. Hope I got you with the Jojo feels. And the more I think about this the more I deviate from the canon. I think it's working... I think it makes sense...  
> And also, here's the coffee scene. I beefed it up a bit.
> 
> As always, please leave a comment/kudos! You will make my day bright!


	4. Igne Natura Renovatur Integra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Through fire nature is reborn whole."  
> Except human nature, which has always been drowned in floods.
> 
> In which Lily walks in STEM and the Administrator is none too happy about it.

**Somewhere within STEM:**

It’s nameless, faceless, barely more than a thought. 

The girl clings to it as if it is her lifeline, her breath. Her touch brings it, melds it, commands it. It wraps around her. Is it a friend dressed all in white, or a foe? It never answers. She understands, in a way, that it can’t speak. It can hardly move without her hand there to guide it. Yet is stays there by her, guardian-like in the way it walks before her when she lets it. It follows her orders like a loyal dog, without hesitation, perhaps with a sort of feral desire to conform. But the girl is too young to begin to understand this. She says to walk, to jump, to run, and it does. And she does too. 

She doesn’t know what she wants. It does, though. It reads her like the storybook that sat on her nightstand very long ago. In its spectral hand it grips hers as they weave together through this dream world she remembers; there’s supposed to be a theater  _ there, _ an apartment building  _ there _ . In this crater where she and her friend walk there was once a lake. She recalls the coolness of the water as she pictures it in her mind. She thinks she might have made the water, like God, when the world was young. There is nothing but dust and debris now. She frowns--how old is  _ this  _ world, then?--and her friend keeps a steady grip on her hand. It squeezes her fingers, reassuring, like a heartbeat. Its touch is nothing like her mother’s, not like her father’s. This is something else, unknown to her. She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t not like it.

She doesn’t know enough.

She’s a child.

But it knows what she wants.

This world is a dreamworld become a nightmare, and she doesn’t like it. She wants to wake up, but she can’t. She knows that with a knowledge as deep as her bones and as sure as the blood that flows when her heart beats like it is now. There’s fire, and she doesn’t like fire. What does she like? Order, she decides, stability. Odd things for a young girl, but time is different here, and while she’s young, she isn’t a child. She can’t be, not here. She is as much a child as the thing that hugs her side, unwilling to let go. Its coat brushes over her arm. It’s rough material, stained and ripped. It smells faintly of fire, but this doesn’t scare her like a blaze would, like the heat would. 

Why doesn’t it?

Because her friend died in a fire too.

She looks up at it and frowns. She’s never heard it speak before. 

It never had a reason to.

She decides that is understandable. 

But what is it that she wants, wandering like this?

To put out the fire.

And how would she go about that?

There is a world of fire, hidden in the layers of reality. She can douse it, eat the flames like the flames once tried to eat her. She can get there if she tries. But she should be warned: this fire is said to be holy fire. She should not be scared.

She isn’t scared. She doesn’t think fire is holy. She thinks water is holy.

She hears it chuckle, a rough sound that brings together the winds of this wild and sick world. Her friend shakes her head. Is that a smile she sees?

There is no such thing as holy fire. Fire burns. Water purifies, she explains to the void.

Fire purifies as well, the void replies.

But Christ was baptized in a river, not a fire. It sounds silly to say here, or maybe it isn’t. Her memories are hazy on the subject, but she remembers going to church, held in her mother’s arms. Her father went too, sometimes. But she does remember how change was through water, how it rained forever and ever, how the sea parted from a divine hand. How rainbows were said to be a promise to never do so again.

This is her world, and she never made that promise.

A land of fire?

Oh yes, of fire and pain and treachery and lies.

Can she drown it?

She can, and her friend will show her how. 

 

**STEM Chamber: Union Experiment, Mobius Facility, Undisclosed Location:**

“Agent Kidman?”

“Yes sir?” Kidman turns in her chair to find the Administrator right behind her. She hides her surprise at his closeness, managing a sharp breath instead of the heart attack that threatened the moment she made contact with his dark, empty eyes. He notices the reaction but does not react himself. Instead he cocks his head, expressionless, attention trained to the madly fluctuating scales on the STEM terminal.  

“Sir?” Kidman tries again, the minutes of silence itching at her under her skin, gnawing at her bones. She can’t handle his presence like this, not this close and this  _ familiar _ . His gaze flicks to her and she suppresses a shudder.

“Explain these to me.” He commands, waving his hand over the graphs on the terminal. Kidman frowns but obeys. He already knows what everything means; he knows better than she ever would.

“The chart on the top right tracks the cerebral energy being expended in the STEM, by all of its occupants. Well, the ones we admitted, anyway.”

Kidman follows the line as it leaps and descends in rapid succession. Neither the increase or decrease are remarkable, but the fluctuation is prominent in comparison to the straight line it had been. Now it ebbs and flows like waves on the beach. It had been stable until Lily escaped her comatose state. Kidman bites her lip. Lily didn’t quite... escape. She just  _ left _ . One minute her vitals were stable and the next she was fully conscious, aware and mobile within the STEM landscape. The influx of power tore off a whole chunk of Union’s map, the northernmost area that was still under construction.

“And I am correct in saying we can monitor location by tracing brain wave activity?”

“In normal circumstances, yes sir. We could be able to pinpoint precise locations… but these aren’t normal circumstances. At best I can only use this to see if anyone has died.”

“A sudden downward trend means death.”

Kidman grinds her teeth. Why is he asking these things when he already knows the answers?

“Correct, sir.”

“And this one?” The Administrator taps the glass with his finger. His nail makes a hollow click on the surface. It sends shivers down Kidman’s spine. It’s a lie to say she isn’t afraid of him. She isn’t a coward, however. He’s disturbing in the same way darkness is to a child, a partially rational and partially irrational fear. Involuntarily, Kidman thinks of Lily, of her pain, of  _ her  _ fear.  _ Suck it up, Kid, _ she tells herself.  _ If a kindergartener can survive STEM you can survive the Administrator draped over your shoulder. Get it together. _

“That one isn’t functional at the moment, given the circumstances.”

“Abnormal circumstances.”

Kidman nods because she can’t trust herself not to comment something disrespectful back.

“And… these two?” The Administrator indicates the farthest two on the left. Again he taps the glass; again the chime echoes in the high-ceilinged room. He’s bent far over the back of Kidman’s chair now. She can hear the intake and exhale of his perfectly timed breaths. She can feel his heat and smell the scent of his sterile cologne. She closes her eyes and wills herself to calm down.

“The leftmost is a population counter which also displays health status for any requested Union citizen.”

“Show me Castellanos.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Why not, Agent Kidman?”

“Given the circumstances--”

“It is not operational.”

Kidman straightens in her chair, forcing the Administrator to move back unless he wants her head against his chest. The thought is chilling and Kidman is surprised when he does back away. He shakes his head and moves to stand to her left, leaning against the STEM terminal like it’s a regular wall, not a multi-billion dollar construction.

“With all due respect, sir,” Kidman brushes a strand of hair from her eyes. “Why are you asking me these things?”  
“I’m trying to make a point.”

“Which would be?” Kidman questions. The Administrator raises his brows, a smirk threatening to appear upon his pale lips. Kidman quickly adds: “Sir?”

“I allowed your suggestion to find Castellanos, endorsed it, even.”

“Yes, you did, and I’m grateful that you--”

“Be quiet until I finish.” The Administrator commands. Kidman bites her tongue, literally and figuratively.

“I allowed it because I did not want to admit that the Union project was a failure. I was hoping to give the former detective some incentive to aid us, perhaps even to join us. But I think this has gone on for too long.”

Kidman freezes, fully aware of the solution lurking behind the Administrator’s vague words.

“No! Sir, if we give him more time I’m sure that he will be able to get everything sorted out!” Kidman tries not to yell, but her voice is forced and pleading.

“Time isn’t something I have a stockpile of, Agent Kidman.”

“He’s only been in a few hours!”

“A few hours too long, in my opinion.”

“Sir,” Kidman begins. “I--”

The terminal screeches. Red bathes Kidman’s features as she turns back to the flickering lights and blinking warnings. 

“Oh shit.” She breathes. From the corner of her eye she sees the Administrator straighten. They look in unison to the top chart: where there were once only dips and hills there are now valleys and mountains. The line almost drops below the screen until it jumps back up, and then drops again. This time, it falls below the standard scale, unable to be seen. Kidman types in new commands, her fingers flying over the keyboard as the Administrator looks on, unreadable. The chart recalibrates, and Kidman gasps.

“Does that look like things are getting ‘sorted out,’ Agent Kidman?” The Administrator says, his voice icy, piercing. “Why don’t you explain  _ that _ one to me.”

It is not because of the Administrator’s request that Kidman mouths the word to herself. It isn’t because of him she repeats it louder.

“Massacre.” She says, the words echoing, prophetic. “Even Sebastian hadn’t dented it that much when he killed Valentini.”

“And the detective attests that Ruvik is back. It’s impossible, but I’m not taking any chances.”

“This wasn’t caused by someone from the outside.”

“Oh?”

“No.” Kidman shakes her head and points to the glass. She types in another command; the one line separates into multiple. “Each line represents a sentient person within STEM.” She murmurs, more to herself than the Administrator. Kidman highlights the Core line, Lily’s line.

“It looks like Lily tried out her powers for the first time.”

“And?”

“It looks like she took out an entire addition to the map.”

“There were no a _ dditions _ to the map.” The Administrator argues. “I never heard that even being discussed, and it could not have happened without my consent.” 

Kidman nods, thinking the same thing. She furrows her brow and leans closer to the monitor screen. 

“That’s because it wasn’t ours…”

“What?” The anger in the Administrator’s voice is almost a physical presence. 

“I-I think I need to call Sebastian. Maybe he might…” Kidman trails off as she realizes what the illegal layer to the map is--was. “Theodore.” She breathes. The Administrator growls behind her and turns back to his… throne. He’s upset, he’s been bested, but Kidman can’t muster the energy to revel in his little defeat. The only thing she can think of is Lily, her large eyes that seemed to see right into people, right past their walls and fears to bring out the best of them. Kidman thinks of Sebastian’s naïve, trusting daughter covered in the blood of dozens of people; she shudders and reaches for the communicator.

**Remains of Father Theodore’s Realm, STEM**

Rain falls quietly. The scent of fire hangs heavily in the air. In some places smoke still rises from flames doused but not yet drowned. She pays them no attention. She walks over the ashes like someone might walk on the beach: her steps are slow, relaxed. She gazes out where the ocean would be, if she were on a beach, if this were a dream instead of a nightmare. She’s never been to the beach, but she saw it in movies. Her mother had promised her they would go one day, as a family, if her father ever got enough time off. ‘It’s a long way away, sweetie.’ That’s what her mother would say. She never got to see the ocean, but she can imagine it. 

Nothing but blackness stares back. The outer edges of this world are torn away, decaying into binary, into data before her very eyes. She cannot decide if it’s beautiful or frightening.

It can be both, her friend assures her in that wordless, voiceless voice he commands so effortlessly.

She can’t think of anything else that is scary and pretty in the same moment. Except, maybe Halloween decorations, with their lights and glitter and death and skulls.

Her friend agrees: that is a wonderful design to have been noticed by a girl so young. Pretty can be scary, and scary can be illuminating.

She wonders how, but doesn’t really care. All the thoughts of Halloween and sugar skulls make her stomach turn because there are real skulls here and the red they’re dyed has nothing to do with candy. If she licked that skull, it would be salty, coppery (this her friend assures her, as if he knows the taste of brains and blood).

That’s a bad thought. She doesn’t want it. She  _ knows _ she doesn’t want that. So she says so, and the thought goes away. With less than a movement of her finger she silences the thing that is her friend, and it doesn’t protest nor try to disobey. Maybe it just likes her, wants to make her happy, but she knows that isn’t the case. What she did had power behind it, an unconquerable power. That, also, she knows. 

So maybe her friend is not a friend at all, but a leech, feeding on her power.

Not the case, it assures her.

She doesn’t believe it. 

She should believe it.

She doesn’t believe it. And she is tired of this game, fearful now, of the white coat that has held her hand and guided her.

The rain turns to a torrent. It pelts her skin like needles from all angles. It freezes, turns to sleet. She covers her head with her arms from the stinging ice. She wants out. She wants to go home. Her friend is lost in the winds that pick up around her, carry her places, over the world that it said was hers. But it can’t be her world, can it? She isn’t like God, she did not create this.

She did create the rain. She did destroy the fire. 

But she did not create the death and the sickness and the murder. If she was a God, she at least knows she isn’t a cruel one. Or maybe she is… she doesn’t know.

Dreams flow on the tide of her thoughts. She dreams of an ocean to see and swim in. She dreams of escaping within the depths, and so she does. She falls from her flight, lands in an ocean of her own making, and it’s salty, like tears. She want to go under, to pull her water around her like a blanket and sleep until she can wake up from this nightmare world, from fire and pain.

Mm, no. She can’t die here by her own hand.

What if she wants to?

Her friend laughs again, and the deep rumble unsettles her. Still she clings to the hands which pull her from the water and the white coat that isn’t wet but is still scratchy against her skin.

Oh no, she can’t die. 

How do you know, how do you know?

Because her friend has already tried and failed and tried and failed.

She is something that cannot die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH.  
> Ok, I'm good now. Just needed to scream a little because I don't know how I feel about this chapter. I mean, I think it's important. I wanted to shake things up a bit, give our boys a little break. I also really wanted to do something with Lily, since she's been mentioned but not discovered yet. And I wanted to get the Core dynamics down, at least a little bit. I also wanted to write a bit with the Admin because I think he's often overlooked but even as a video game man he's hella creepy, and I love him for it. Conversely, I hated Theodore because the crazy priest thing is SOOOO overdone I'm about to lose it with horror game devs. Outlast 2 was good but after that, just... meh.
> 
> Anyway, please tell me what you think about the new perspectives. Yay or nay? Also, do you all prefer longer or shorter chapters? And, what do you all think is Seb's favorite soda? (I'm leaning towards Dr. Pepper because that's my favorite soda.) How about Stefano's?
> 
> Thank you for reading! Have a sunshiney day after this depressing ass chapter.  
> And a shout out to my friend VulpesKorsak for guessing one of the plot twists. I changed it somewhat, btw. And no one ask what it is!


	5. Aria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sebastian sees Lily, he also sees Ruvik, and catching the madman's eye is never a good thing, especially after they've been so long apart. But Stefano isn't the kind to be intimidated, except when he's voicing his feelings. 
> 
> In which Sebastian gets angry, gets wet, and gets hurt, and Stefano isn't the best at playing nurse. Didn't anyone ever tell him not to lay on an injured person?

Sebastian pinches his nose and clips the communicator back at his side. Kidman’s voice replays in his mind: Lily took out the entirety of Theodore’s realm. She didn’t just destroy it, she melted it down into raw data, and then… deleted it. The Father’s grand plan was decaying even as they spoke, even, Sebastian thinks, as he sits and waits and allows Ruvik’s hold on his daughter to grow stronger. Sebastian breathes deeply. He can’t think of Lily as a murderer: it was self-protection. Theodore would have taken her, abused her, used her for his own ends… and then what? Sucked her power dry like a leech? Sebastian doesn’t blame his daughter for her anger. If he could, he’d ask her to resurrect the man just so he could have a go at him. 

A brilliant flash interrupts Sebastian’s thoughts. He sees spots before his eyes.

“What the hell was that for?”

Stefano smiles innocently, wiggling his camera in one hand, the other held up in surrender. 

“So pensive. I’ve never seen you look that way before. I had to capture it, just in case I never saw it again.”

Sebastian frowns.

“That’s a little obsessive, isn’t it?”

“All artists are obsessive.” Stefano dismisses. “It’s how we stay focused, when the world threatens to collapse in around us. When there are so many ideas and concepts flowing through our heads, obsession is the only thing which anchors us. It gives the intangible a body.”

Sebastian fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Why do you keep saying “us,” and “we?” Was there a gore-photography fanclub or something?” He quips. Stefano turns on his heel and peers over his shoulder.

“No, no. Don’t think in literal meaning, please. You’re going to give me a headache.”

“My apologies.” Sebastian murmurs, not meaning it, and the artist appraises him for a second before moving back to the project he is certain will take down Ruvik. Sebastian watches him, notes how his steps are more fluid now, as if Stefano had grown accustomed to his companion. Sebastian can’t say the same, at least, not quite. He’s still guarded--he’s always guarded--but he supposes there is something to be said for neither of them having tried to murder one another yet.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Sebastian asks. Stefano does not answer him. He smirks and shakes his head as if to chastise him.  _ You cannot rush art _ , Sebastian can hear him say. With a sigh, Sebastian leans back in the chair and turns his attention to the ceiling.

Stefano hums as he works. It’s an old song that Sebastian half-remembers, but he pays it no heed until the humming turns to singing and Stefano’s voice echoes in the room. Sebastian jerks forward to glare at him, and the artist returns his gaze over the camera he promised would be their salvation.

“You know that song?” Is all Stefano asks.

“Don’t sing it.”

“Ah, so you don’t like my voice?”

“I’ve had enough fire and death for one lifetime! I don’t need you taking advantage of that and acting like you can fuck with me because of it.”

Stefano’s expression softens, much to Sebastian’s surprise. There is a glimmer of emotion in his blue eye, though Sebastian cannot say which emotion it might be. He doesn’t want to guess. The artist moves from behind his project and sits in the chair opposite to Sebastian. He licks his lips before speaking, as if the words in his mind are harmful to say, as if he’s preparing himself to speak with knives. Sebastian clenches his jaw. They don’t have time for a heart-to-heart. They’ve wasted enough time as it is, with Stefano insisting the camera was nowhere near completion. There is rage at the thought that the artist might have been stalling, rage that Stefano might have lured him into something, taken advantage of his pain. Sebastian eyes him: sitting like he is, if Sebastian moved quick enough, he could take him out again. After all, the only aid Stefano has provided so far was in aiding the enemy by wasting time.

“I did not sing it for you feel pain at the words, but joy.”

“Joy? The only people who would get joy out of something like that are sick fucks like you.” Sebastian leans forward, elbows on his knees, seething but trying to hold it at bay. “I’m done with the mental games, do you understand? I’m tired of everyone using my own life against me!”

“It is only possible because you  _ allow _ them to do it!” Stefano snaps. His mouth is drawn tight and that unnameable emotion flickers bright across his face. “The song was not meant to prey upon you.”

“What else would it have done?” Sebastian retorts. “A mother sacrifices herself for her daughter in a burning house? Sounds a little familiar, doesn’t it?”

“You’ve never heard it to completion.”

“It’s just death. Death is completion.”

“No!” Stefano shakes his head. “No, you must hear it to the end. You cannot make a judgement without understanding what is said.”

The artist stands and with a pointed look at the man bent over on the couch. 

“Stay here.” He says, and then is gone in a blue-tinted rip in this would-be reality. Sebastian stares after him, his jaw set rigid. Aches crawl up the muscles in his face, but it’s nothing, nothing compared to what he’s felt before. He drops his head, shakes himself as if he can get all the anger out in that simple back and forth that drags his hair over his eyes. God, there’s a spasm of need in the small of his back: he  _ needs _ to get back out there. He can’t sit like this. It’ll drive him insane.

If he isn’t already.

“Fuck that.” Sebastian spits the words to no one in particular. He rips himself from the couch, fingers clawing into the fabric. “I’m not waiting.” He calls. The words echo off the ceiling. He doesn’t expect an answer, nor does he get one.

Stefano’s greatest asset is his ability to move within STEM. He’s not as good as Ruvik--no one could be. It’s just logical. No one usurps the creator within their creation; Sebastian’s lying if he hadn’t held some hope that this time, being his second time in, he’d be able to manipulate the world a little, use the environment to his advantage. He can’t. He feels like he should be able to, at least, he should have been more likely to do so than Stefano, who’d never experienced this hell before. Except--Sebastian grimaces as he slinks down the hallways, checking corners and alcoves to make sure he’s alone--Stefano created this, aided in the making of this hell. So maybe there’s something to be said for being a murderous, psychopathic bastard.

The theater’s layout is convoluted. Sebastian can’t imagine this was the original design. It’s too large, too opulent, and too representative of the artist who dwelled--dwells?--there. Sebastian shakes his head. This is ridiculous. He’s wasting time. The halls twist and converge in spots they didn’t before, not even the first time he was there. It’s a trick, an illusion, and Sebastian’s patience is decreasing with each breath, with each step. 

There’s a door to the left, a door to the right. Sebastian pauses in the middle of the hall and glances between them. He tries the knobs of each. Locked. No surprise. 

“I don’t know if you’re doing this on purpose, but I’m not having it.” He grits out. He backs up and slams his foot into the door on his left. It doesn’t give, so he attacks it again. On the second kick, the wood splinters and on the third, Sebastian emerges on the other side. 

The room before him is huge, but bare. There’s a couch pushed up against the left wall, covered with a spotted white sheet. That isn’t what draws his attention, however. Ahead of him, the wall is a wall of windows, all the way from the floor to the ceiling. There’s a door in the middle which probably leads to a balcony, but Sebastian can’t tell, because the rain that’s falling outside hides that. Drawn by the sight, Sebastian staggers toward the windows. 

“What that fuck…?”

There isn’t any weather in Union. It’s just blackness. Sebastian has always been under blackness. There’s no sun, no stars, and no clouds, not here. Yet, it’s raining, and it’s raining with vengeance. The closer he gets, the louder the drops on the window sound. There’s the screaming of wind as Sebastian moves his face to the glass, fogging it with his breath. He can’t see a thing. 

Sebastian pulls out his communicator. He dials Kidman. The only thing he hears is static, grey and annoying in the solitude of this room, this odd room which is so out of place in a theater.

The handle on the balcony door almost begs Sebastian to turn it. The rain has a hypnotizing rhythm as it drums against the glass, like a church choir, a Gregorian Chant. His mind screams at him not to do it, but Sebastian pulls the door open. The wind stings and the rain invades the room, slanted just enough to envelop him and pull him out on the balcony he doesn’t even know is there.

The concrete is slick with water and Sebastian holds his arm out, trying in vain to stop the raindrops from slicing at his skin. The storm is a mixture of rain and sleet, chilling and icy, painful upon contact. But he continues. He’s not quite sure why. It might be because the wind sounds like someone crying and the rain is salty like the ocean… or like tears.

“Lily?” Sebastian yells. His voice is swallowed by the wind. 

Could she do something like this? She is the Core, after all. What Ruvik had done… this is nothing, is it?

A low hum of static ripples from Sebastian’s communicator. There’s no words, just a wave of scrambled noise. He curses and twists to shut it off. 

And then something catches his eye: there’s a figure riding the wind. No, they’re not riding it. They’re floating, letting it carry them. Why does it look familiar?

“L-Lily!” Sebastian tries again. He catches a mouthful of rain and spits it out. The figure fades and appears, weaving through the storm like a god, drunk on their own power of destruction. “Lily? Is that you?”

The figure unfolds at the question. It draws the wind around itself like a blanket, clutching the angry torrent like a child holds a favorite toy. Sebastian suppresses a sob.

“Lily, sweetheart, come on. It’s me! Come on, please!”

The figure stands and the storm swirls around it. Then, slowly, it moves forward. Sebastian squints and the rain lessens the closer he gets to… the eye of the storm. He moves, steps labored, to the edge of the balcony. His boots slide on the ground but he presses on. The figure is just beyond his reach as his hands close around the freezing rail. They both pause. It’s an impasse; the winds quiet and the sleet stills. Sebastian draws the back of his hand across his face. He’s soaked through and already trembling from the cold.

“ _ W-who are you? _ ” 

The world itself seems to speak the question. The words come from all directions, but there’s no mistaking the voice. Not when Sebastian has heard it in his nightmares for years.

“Oh God, Lily. It’s me! It’s dad! I’m going to get you out of here. Come on. I’ll… I’m going to make it right this time.” 

Sebastian stretches his hand out over the balcony. Lily regards it but pulls back.

“ _ My dad is dead. _ ”

The storm begins anew. The wind shrieks with newfound fury. Sebastian stumbles back, pushed by the wind, by the frigidness of those words. It couldn’t have been Lily. It  _ wasn’t _ Lily! He screams into the gale but nothing answers. Sight becomes useless as the world melts away into a cold, pulsating void of rain and ice and fear and anger. He doesn’t notice when he falls. His limbs are numb from the chill. He stares up into an unnatural sky of despair. Something manifests, something different. This Sebastian recognizes--burnt white in a white and grey world.

“Y-you can’t be here...” Sebastian sputters. He spits the words even as Ruvik’s scarred hands claw at his arms, even as his knees pin Sebastian’s legs.

“Still, be still.” His hoarse voice says. Ruvik looms, bent over him. Sebastian expects to see a sneer etched onto his face, but when Ruvik leans down, there’s nothing. His expression is blank, not amused, not disdainful. Sebastian struggles against the hold, but Ruvik just chuckles. It’s hollow, like a recording, like a memory. “Shh.”

The scolding comes with a finger to the lips. Sebastian snarls and tries to bite him. Ruvik leans back, now with a smirk, relinquishing his hold on Sebastian’s arms but placing a palm on Sebastian’s chest. 

“You’re not real!” 

“How would you know the nature of this reality?”

“This is a new STEM! You couldn’t have gotten in here!” Sebastian barks, acutely aware of the heat of Ruvik’s hand on his chest. It’s a kind of touch that makes Sebastian shiver, the kind that makes him realize how fast his heart is beating--and how easy it would be for the man on top of him to pull it out.

Ruvik quirks a smile, strange, pale eyes glimmering with a light of their own, as he runs his hand up from Sebastian’s chest, to his neck, to his jaw. Ruvik’s touch lingers until he moves to cup Sebastian’s face in his rough hands. He runs a thumb over Sebastian’s temple, fingers teasing, taunting.

“Then someone must have invited me.”

From the corner of his eye, Sebastian catches the sight of a pistol on the ground. It must have skidded away from him when he fell. His eyes drift back to Ruvik’s demented grin and then back to the gun. He wastes no time in twisting to grab it. Ruvik snarls and tenses as they grapple for the object, but Sebastian does not hesitate, not this time. He jams the gun up under Ruvik’s chin and pulls the trigger. 

Nothing. 

A pathetic click.

Ruvik laughs. He wraps his fingers around the gun and manages to pry it from Sebastian’s fingers. He tosses it over the edge of the balcony, into the tempest.

“What a heartwarming reunion. You’re still as impulsive as ever.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Of course you will. I would expect no less.” The words sound genuine. “But it will be different, this time.”

“No, it won’t be!”

“Oh yes, it will indeed. After all, I’m not really here, am I?” Ruvik leans back, his knees digging painfully into Sebastian’s thighs. He spreads his arms and lifts his head to the rain. It does not touch him. He wears a halo of protection, the drops parting for him. Sebastian squirms and Ruvik looks down. Eyes half closed, he leans back down and presses his lips to Sebastian’s temple. “I’m  _ there. _ ” He whispers. He has no breath. The words are formless as the pressure on Sebastian’s body disappears. 

And then he’s lying in the rain, alone, as the world goes black.

 

\-------

 

When Sebastian comes to, the first thing he notices is the music. It’s mournful, an aria. He can’t remember the name of it, but he remembers (was it hours ago?) Stefano’s voice effortlessly lilting over the notes. The artist’s face comes to him in his mind, a strange type of concern clouding his one visible eye. Sebastian blinks, but the vision stays. He thinks he frowns, consciousness still fuzzy, and tries to bat the image away. Stefano catches his clumsy movement, gloved fingers wrapping around his wrist, and Sebastian realizes he isn’t dreaming.

The first thing he does is sit up, but he finds it brings a horrible pain in his chest and so he lurches over and teeters on the edge of a… couch?

“No.”

Stefano’s voice is soft and Sebastian almost doesn’t hear it over the mournful cry of the song. But he feels hands on his shoulders and they guide him back to laying flat; Sebastian tries not to show his surprise at the gentle care.

“I don’t know what happened to you.” Stefano says. It isn’t a question, but it begs an answer.

“Ruvik.” Sebastian manages to choke out. “He’s… controlling Lily. He made her create a storm.”

“Ah.” Stefano says, and looks away. “That’s why you were soaking wet.”

“I…” Sebastian furrows his brow and then realizes there’s a blanket draped over him. He shifts under it and then starts. “Where are my clothes?” He punctuates each word, half furious, half… he doesn’t even know.

“Drying.”

“You took off my clothes? While I was  _ sleeping _ ?”

“Don’t be so self conscious. I’ve seen the male form before. I’m an artist, remember?”

“That’s…” Sebastian can’t find the words to express how off point that excuse was. He decides he doesn’t particularly care, either. Stefano doesn’t meet his gaze and Sebastian sighs. The image of Lily, pulling the rain to her beck and call, suddenly surges back to him and Sebastian lets out a pained cry. At the sound, Stefano starts and turns to him. 

“It’s nothing.” The detective assures.

Sebastian turns to face the back of the couch; he’s in the same room as before, he notices. The rain still patters down outside the windows, though the door is now closed, the wail muffled. It’s warmer than Sebastian remembers, and there’s more light (he doesn’t know if he hadn’t noticed the lamp or if Stefano had brought it in). But he doesn’t care to notice any of these things. When he closes his eyes, all he sees is Lily crying and Ruvik’s sadistic grin. When he opens them, he’s naked under a blanket with a used-to-be enemy standing vigil over him. He’s tired, just so tired of it all…

“Now is not the time to pout.”

“Not pouting. I’m wondering why you didn’t take the chance to kill me when you had it.” Sebastian muses, then scoffs. “I guess you still have it.”

Stefano shifts on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. There’s a conflict brewing behind his eye, and Sebastian doesn’t know what to make of that.

“You will think I am lying if I tell you.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you won’t understand.”

“Listen, you… saved me. And I’ve got nothing fuckin’ better to do than listen, so just tell me.”

Stefano swallows before he goes to speak, but a change in the song has him turning back to Sebastian. And this time, there’s no mistaking the look on his face.

“This is the part you needed to hear.”

“What is it saying? I can’t speak Italian.”

Stefano gives a huff that might be a laugh, but he uncrosses his legs and situates himself to face Sebastian fully. And if it isn’t a mistake of the light, there is a bit of color on his pale cheeks as he closes his eye and begins to translate.

_ “It was in that grief, that love came to me. A voice full of harmony and it says: ‘You have to live! I am the life itself!’ Your heaven is in my eyes, you’re not alone.” _

Sebastian is taken aback by the words, by the emotion in the singer’s voice. And… in Stefano’s. Sebastian watches the emotions as they flicker across the other man’s face as he speaks, as his voice melds in with the rhythm of the song. He sways to the melody, brushing an arm over Sebastian’s leg. But Sebastian doesn’t protest, and Stefano keeps speaking.

_ “Smile and hope! I am love! Are you surrounded by blood and mud? I am divine! I am oblivion!” _ He sings, and it would be a lie for Sebastian to say he does not feel the longing and sadness that flows through Stefano’s words. This is a truth Sebastian had never bothered to see. That sadness--Stefano’s fate is already settled, isn’t it? He can’t get out, not now. Whatever happens, is he destined to die in STEM? Sebastian shivers. It’s a horrible kind of death where one just… ceases to be. And after all this, all the passion that Stefano held, even if it was corrupted, the reality must be terrifying. At least, Sebastian thinks it is. 

He isn’t sure why he struggles to sit up, and when Stefano opens his eye and their gazes connect, Sebastian isn’t sure why he doesn’t look away. The music continues and both men follow the other’s movements; Stefano’s breaths are deep and there is something sensual about the way he leans in and speaks the rest of the song. Sebastian finds he doesn’t mind it.

_ “I’m love, I’m love, love, and the angel approaches with a kiss and the death is kissing you. My body is a dying body. So take it…” _

Sebastian wraps his arms around Stefano and pulls him down, the last words of the song remaining untranslated. Stefano’s lips are parted from shock but he replies with hunger, running his fingers through Sebastian’s hair. Sebastian tightens his grip around Stefano’s waist, pulling him, trying to get them as close as they can be. Sebastian growls, the vibrations traveling between them, connecting them, but then there’s that pain, a sharp spasm in Sebastian’s chest. When Stefano realizes, he scuttles back, flushed. His eye is wide and his hair is a little out of place--which he hurriedly fixes with fervor. Even with the pain, Sebastian can’t tear himself from the red of Stefano’s lips or the way his lashes dust his cheek when he looks down, which he does. Stefano’s gaze is trained on the floor as he tries to catch his breath.

“That was… idiotic of me. I apologize.”

“Stefano.”

The artist looks up. Sebastian clears his throat, licks his lips. There’s no real reason why he offers the other man his hand, but when Stefano takes it, Sebastian pulls him nearer. There isn’t a plan, but they move so well together, and this time the kiss is orderly, chaste. It’s something Sebastian never imagined he wanted, but it feels pretty damn good now that he has it.

“What was, ah, that last line?” He asks when they pull away. Stefano scoffs, but it’s sad, a sound of loss. 

“She sings:  _ Corpo di moribonda è il corpo mio. Prendilo dunque. Io son già morta cosa! _ ”

“Which means?”

“My body is a dying body. So take it. I’m already dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait!! I made this one a bit longer to make up for it. And we finally get to see some Sebastian/Stefano because I remembered this was a pairing.... oops. I also have no idea when I'll be able to update next because college is kicking my ass and I'm stressed out. But~ I really hope you enjoyed this part. I knocked out some RuviSeb while I was at it and I feel so accomplished.  
> THE SONG STEFANO "SINGS" IS THIS ONE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5oZi2fovnZQ  
> HERE'S THE LYRICS: http://lyricstranslate.com/en/la-mamma-morta-they-killed-my-mother.html


	6. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Ruvik looks at Lily, it's not Lily he sees.

There are memories burned into every inch of Ruben Victoriano’s skin. It doesn’t matter they don’t all have scars to show where they are. But there’s something beautiful about that, too, the knowledge that even an unmarked body can be marred beyond comprehension and still seem whole to the untrained eye. If there were mirrors here, the real kind, mere reflections of light, he could trace all the hideous bumps and valleys of his skin and name off each sorrow they represented. 

After all, once he got over being a god, what else was there to do but wallow in self pity?

Well, there was Sebastian Castellanos, though he had always been more of a game than a goal. When Ruvik had first seen him, he hadn’t been impressed. He had been sure that he could and would crush the fragile alcoholic detective and leave nothing left of him except a husk of a body marinating in a Mobius bathtub. But then… what? What was it that had happened? Ruvik had never ceased trying to kill him because to do that was ridiculous. It was illogical. Sebastian was his enemy by circumstance if not by choice. Ruvik’s only goal was alive in Leslie Withers and Sebastian opposed that goal. He was a hindrance to Ruvik’s freedom. So Ruvik didn’t stop trying to kill him. Ruvik didn’t feel remorse for the pains and stress of his own  _ creativity _ caused the unfortunate detective. But he did… feel. It wasn’t by his own choice, certainly not. 

The last time they had met, really met, it was a fight to the death--quite a one-sided fight. Ruvik has those memories, those odd memories of devouring Leslie Withers’s consciousness and grappling to keep it from the onslaught of Sebastian’s attempts to steal it back. It never would have worked.

After that is… blankness. Absolute blankness. It’s like a long sleep, the kind Ruvik rarely ever had in life. Restful, deep, the kind of sleep you wake up from without knowledge of where you are or where you came from. Sleep. Darkness. It’s flavored like death.

It wasn’t death. Ruvik’s memories pick up here, in this wretched, half built, backwater town built on the Mobius mainframe which Ruvik could have designed better when he was five. It’s absolutely astonishing how little they were able to glean from his genius considering  _ they had his brain in a jar. _

He doesn’t remember exactly when he came to Union, only that it was after the plague which was oddly similar to his own style of massacre. His first memories are more feelings than snippets of images. All he knew was he was back in a place where his expertise could not be matched, where his genius would reign supreme. Some time after that he was aware of a Core and it called to him, a moth drawn to a flame. He found it--her--cowering and shivering in the ruins of some inconsequential building. A child. Ruvik had wanted to laugh until he saw her dark hair and tear stained cheeks. She hadn’t noticed him, even as he drew closer to her. She was blind to what she was, to the power she held. She was so pure, dressed in pyjamas and sniveling with the same sort of false regalness Laura had on those days when the sky was dark and Laura’s spirit dimmed to match it. This girl couldn’t be… no. She’d looked up then, huge brown eyes glistening with half-spilled tears and spotted him flickering before her. And she hadn’t screamed. Ruvik had realized then that the child before him was both powerful and clueless.

For once, upon seeing someone so painfully helpless, his first thought was not of manipulation. 

It hadn’t taken him long at all to figure out that the girl clinging to his side was the infamous Lily Castellanos, Sebastian’s supposedly immolated daughter.

Mobius is beautifully efficient at breaking families, and that is a special kind of cruelty. Of all the things Ruvik hates, he hates that especially. 

Ruvik hates losing, no matter what that loss is. Is it the loss of freedom? The literal loss of body? What about the loss of family? The loss of a loved one? The loss of another person so fully imprinted on your very soul their absence is worse than death?

Violence is rarely unwarranted. As a master of the mind, that is a truth Ruvik had come to accept a long time ago. Violence is an outcome. The input is anger, fear, hurt. Trauma. The kind of trauma that never leaves, the kind that remains in memories stitched in scars across a failing body and etched in invisible caverns up and down the mind. God, he knows that feeling, that loss. 

And he recognizes it in Lily’s eyes.

Of all the things Ruvik wants, he doesn’t want to perpetuate it. He’s cruel, sure. He’s crazy, of course he is. Who but a crazy person would go to any and all lengths to save the person he loves?

Laura had told him before to stop. But if he had stopped that meant letting her rot inside her own mind. It meant giving into her whims of fancy and crushing darkness and watching her wither ever farther over each episode. On some days she was bright like the sun, her smile contagious and more powerful a mental influence than Ruvik ever had in STEM. Other days the mere thought of life weighed so heavily upon her she couldn’t drag herself from bed. Breathing was a burden she wished she could shirk off. And why? Laura, Ruvik’s beautiful, equally genius sister--why would she, of all the people on the planet, of the scum and the aristocracy, have to suffer? There were so many others who should have been cursed like she was. But they weren’t.

In Ruvik’s naive, boyish mind he had vowed to find out--he had vowed to cure his sister. He failed. He failed because when she had hoised him up and out of the burning barn it was only half out of love.

Laura had dreamt of dying for a very long time.

It seemed Ruvik would spend his whole life dreaming to get her back. If that meant murdering, if it meant mutilating and dissecting and cultivating a hatred so intense it reminded him of the fire itself, then so be it. Ruvik knew loss, but he knew he had the means to overcome it, to reverse it, to turn that loss into a gain. He had dreamt of making a place just for them where Laura would finally have the happiness she deserved and Ruvik could sleep peacefully knowing that out of his methods of madness had come sanity and clarity. Out his his violence had come love.

Lily shivers next to him. Ruvik feels it in the data of this STEM. Sometimes he can fool himself just enough to pretend it’s Laura next to him. It’s Lily, though, Lily. His tiny protege of death and destruction. If he doesn’t teach her, no one will. Not her bull-headed, incompetent father. Not her backstabbing, conformist mother. All life is is loss, and what better place to learn that than the stolen landscape of a forgotten dream of happiness?

Lily shouldn’t shiver.

Lily knows that.

Why is she shivering?

Ghosts.

Ruvik nods. He knows what she means. She’d seen her father after all, after believing him to be dead. How terrifying would that be, to see the face of love living and vibrant while knowing it’s dead and decaying? Ruvik can’t imagine Laura without it bringing an immense amount of pain. He does, sometimes, just to keep her smile fresh in his mind’s eye. He’s as much of a masochist as he is a sadist--there are certain times when the pain from that lost smile feels a little like heaven.

Offhandedly, he wonders what Lily’s smile looks like. Ruvik glances down to her. Her hand is clutching his coat and the other clutches her soot-stained teddy bear. Laura had preferred cats over bears. She had had an orange and cream colored stuffed one and she slept with it every night, no matter their mother’s chiding and their father’s blatant disapproval. Ruvik remembers getting to hold it when he’d sneak into his sister’s room and crawl into bed with her. She’d exchange her precious cat for him--her arms had wrapped around him and kept him warm and comforted him even when she was breaking apart, piece by piece. Ruvik had secured the stuffed animal in his arms like it was a duty, like they all needed an anchor. He needed Laura and she needed him… at least, that’s what he chooses to believe, even now.

Is Lily afraid of ghosts? Lily is a god here.

She doesn’t feel like a god.

Lily just feels lost.

That too, Ruvik knows. He knows about being lost in the endless depth of loss.

What is it that Lily wants?

Just to forget.

Oh memory is a horrible thing. In Lily’s childish, broken voice Laura seeps through. Ruvik remembers asking her what he could do; her answer was always nothing. He couldn’t do anything except watch her turn her face from the sun and fade into the shadows a little farther each time. When she came out of it, there was always damage done, always wounds to clean. Snide words to mother, the unloving, scientific concern of their father. Laura had realized she couldn’t beat it, so why even try? It would have been so much easier if she could just forget the bad times--Ruvik can still her voice saying that, belittling herself as though her depression was a choice and she was too weak to combat it.

Memories are useful.

Memories are fuzzy and they ache.

Yes, they do indeed. But without memories…

Lily’s hand finds Ruvik’s and she holds onto him as though he might save her, somehow. Amid the decay of Union and the corpses of its ill-fated citizens, it is Lily’s pure trust which leaves an acrid taste in Ruvik’s mouth. Laura had trusted him. She was the last one.

There’s a grim determination in Lily’s face. She’s far too old for her age. Ruvik decides to ask her again what she wants to do now, because his words are evaporating in the heat of his regret before he can concoct a better question. Lily squeezes her eyebrows together and tightens her grip on her bear.

She wants to learn. She wants to escape.

Ruvik can’t promise her that last one, but if there’s anything he can promise her, it’s that she will learn. She will learn and she will save herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm going to apologize for my really long hiatus. I kind of lost my spark with this and then I lost someone very close to me and I debated whether or not to give this up. This chapter is short and has some plot points but I decided to write as Ruvik because I wanted to kind of rant about the feeling of loss and he was actually the perfect character to do that with. Needless to say, I'm not abandoning this and we'll get back to Seb and Stefano in a bit, but this chapter was actually somewhat healing to write. Also, my direction with Ruvik and Laura's relationship here is that Laura had horrible depression and Ruben tried to "cure" it. Thus was born his obsession with psychology and the human mind because he couldn't save his sister. STEM was meant to be a place to "resurrect" her where she would be happy and free of mental illness. So yeah, this chapter is kinda dark, not only because I threw my own grief into this but also for the little sub-plot things.
> 
> Finally, I want to give a huge thank you to all of my readers and those who leave comments because I've actually read through some of the comments on my bad days and they really make me feel better. For everyone reading, thank you for doing so. I really hope I'm doing the story and characters justice.


	7. Bad Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily regains a memory, Kidman has a realization, and Sebastian wonders why the absolute motherfucking fuck he did what he did.

She’s scared. Her world doesn’t make sense. She’s scared of the man before her and his words, his familiarity. He looks so similar to someone she loves.

_ “Oh God, Lily. It’s me! It’s dad! I’m going to get you out of here. Come on. I’ll… I’m going to make it right this time.” _

__ It’s impossible. Her dad is dead. They told her so, the men in white (not the same sooty white as her friend) and her mother, when Lily saw her. Her dad is… dead.

“My dad is dead.”

She gives into the fear. Her rain and her water protect her, weave around her in defense of that which she does not comprehend. In the maelstrom she cannot tell her tears from her rain, and her screams could be laughs if she pitches them differently.

Everything is so strange here.

Amid the roaring water she hears her not-father call out. The space beside her, the one her friend usually occupies, is absent. She uncurls herself and peers through the sheets of rain to look for him. She finds him. She finds him… protecting her. 

Eyes wide, she watches as her friend subdues the evil man, pins him down to keep her safe. She stays far away, shivering from fear instead of cold. But she has faith in what her friend can do. That faith is tested when the evil man pushes a gun up under the jut of her friend’s scarred chin. Does she scream? She wants to scream--but her friend is good, too good to be bested by such evil. He grabs the gun and tosses it over the edge of the balcony; she commands the wind to bring it to her. It rests gently in her open palms, dripping with salt water, shaking from her fear. Guns are foreign. She knows what they are, nothing more. But there’s something familiar about it--a memory! A memory of when she was still with her mother and father and her father was cleaning his gun on the kitchen table. She had reached out, curious, nothing more, but the horror she’d seen etched across her father’s face withdrew her hand faster than any slap ever could. He screamed her name. She cried. And her mother had hugged her. And she would always remember what a gun was.

This item in her hands is important. It isn’t exact to what she remembers, but it’s close. She wants it because it’s a memory of  _ her _ , of her real mother and father so long ago. It’s dangerous, she knows, but what if her friend could not be there to protect her? What if he left? He’s so much stronger than she is. Could she protect herself? What if she was alone and afraid like so many times before?

Lily keeps the gun.

\-------

“I can’t fucking believe it.”

Sebastian speaks more to himself than to Stefano, but across the room the artist’s eye flicks up anyway. He doesn’t speak, and Sebastian doesn’t see him, so he goes back to his work.

There are plenty of guns in STEM. That’s the one good part of it--no lack of firepower. That doesn’t mean, though, that Sebastian is okay with losing one, because he isn’t. Because it was also his pistol and he was as attached as he could get to a gun under these circumstances. It fired well, was wonderfully upgraded, and felt just right in his hands. He could list off a million reasons why that gun was as much a casualty as a person, but…

At some point Sebastian has to admit he’s ignoring the more pressing details, such as how, not very long ago, he kissed Stefano.  _ He  _ kissed  _ Stefano _ . Those three words don’t sound good in his head, but they won’t leave, no matter how hard he tries shoving them out.

Sebastian fights the urge to scream and instead massages his temples. His gaze is stuck to the floor and his elbows dig into his thighs. There are so many reasons why what he did was more than idiotic--it was  _ wrong _ \--and they’re all flying around his consciousness like flies around a corpse.

“You look awful. Maybe you should lie back down--”

“Shut up.”

From the corner of his eye Sebastian sees Stefano flinch. It isn’t an easily disguiseable flinch either. It’s a short, quick snap of his shoulder up to his chin and back down again. Sebastian sighs. Stefano had never reacted to him that fully before. 

_ What in the absolute motherfucking _ fuck _ had he done? _

__ “I am close to being finished.” Stefano’s voice cuts through the atmosphere and Sebastian can’t help it--he flinches.

“With the camera?”

Stefano hums an affirmative. Sebastian grimaces at the sound. It’s too much like his singing voice, like a fleeting feeling born in amber lamplight while the rain pounded the windows outside. Like that one short moment when Stefano’s sincerity seemed to transcend the circumstances and the absolute illogical nature of it all allowed him to do something else illogical.

“Great,” Sebastian coughs. “All we have to do now is find Ruvik.” Sebastian continues the thought as:  _ and rescue Lily. _

__ “I’m sure I could draw him near.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you could.”

The air is charged by their unsaid words. Sebastian scrutinizes the pile of weapons and ammo before him. He’d counted it what, three times now? Still he reaches out, eager to busy himself with the necessities of survival.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” Sebastian says. Stefano does not reply.

Sebastian is content to lose himself in his weapons, in the looming sureness of death. Anger and revenge are easier to focus on than the multi-faceted being of love, whatever the fuck that really is. He’d loved Myra. He knows that. He loves Lily--he loves her with his entire being, with every synapse and pulse in his brain. And he’d loved Joseph and depended on Joseph’s love in return. That was love, wasn’t it, which dictated Jojo help him into his apartment when Sebastian was too drunk to see straight? It was love, wasn’t it, which kept him and Myra together in the beginning of this nightmare? Love which drove him to dream of Lily in flames. Love which forced him here, again.

“Sebastian?”

“What?” The detective curses under his breath as he loses his grip on a bullet and it rolls under the couch. He gets down on all fours to hunt for it--and to distract himself from whatever Stefano is about to say.

“I want to thank you,” Stefano says, his accent thickening and voice a little above a whisper. Sebastian remains on the floor even though he finds the bullet quickly. For some reason, it’s easier to accept the sincerity in Stefano’s voice while hidden under a couch.

“What for?” Sebastian doesn’t worry that his voice is too muffled until a few more long seconds stretch out in silence and he wonders if Stefano had actually heard him.

“For not treating me as an animal.”

Sebastian jerks and bumps his head on the underside of the couch, not hard, but enough to solidify that Stefano really is mentioning  _ it _ \--and admitting he enjoyed it, no less. Sebastian feels his face redden in shame. He rises from the couch slowly, hoping the blush will fade.

If there was ever a bad time to have a discussion like this, this would be it. 

“I do understand you regret that… touch of mine. It was childish on my part. Obscene and unexpected.”

“Yeah, like your fucking pictures.”

“...like my fucking pictures.” Stefano repeats the words and it is odd to hear them echoing back to Sebastian without malice. “You bring me to my point.”

“Which is?”

“It’s been a long while since I have been recognized for what I am without being judged by incapable eyes.”

“I still think you’re a psychopath.”

“You have good reasons to.”

“Then what are you really trying to say? I’m damned tired of playing games.”

“I am a genius, Sebastian, and geniuses are governed by their art, whatever fate feels that might be. My art is… taboo. It is taboo because it transcends, because it connects, because people do not like seeing the caress of death so vibrantly spread out before them. It reminds them of their own demise. The only ones who can handle such sights are the gifted and the broken, and regardless of enjoyment, for a moment my gifts found solace in your shattered self. And it was… a euphoria I never thought I would have. So thank you.”

Stefano’s voice fades as though he might say more, but he doesn’t. Sebastian watches him with a frown and confusion clouding his mind. He wants to say that was overly dramatic, some shit that belonged in a knock-off Shakespeare play, but the honesty is there, buried under Stefano’s language. Sebastian says nothing. He rolls the bullet between his fingers. Of all the things he has done in STEM, a kiss is, at face value, the least disturbing of a long list of mentally-scarring things. And yet…

Sebastian shakes his head. He may have traversed STEM again because of love, but he would consider himself insane for thinking he might find it in a place like this. With a person like that.

“How much longer is that gonna take you?” Sebastian asks.

For a fleeting moment Sebastian can see the disappointment in Stefano’s gaze before the man carefully locks it away. He wanted him to say something else.

“Just a bit longer,” he assures, and Sebastian returns to staring at his guns.

\-------

Kidman’s head aches. She rubs her eyes, unsure of how they can feel so much like barbed wire embedded in her skull. 

The Administrator is still behind her. Every now and then she hears him exchange a hushed word with some faceless, nameless aide. She never pays attention to it, too focused on the multiple monitors before her. The stability of Union is, well, stable at the moment. Each new populated point of the graph gives her anxiety; she’s just waiting for it to plummet again. 

But, because her attention is elsewhere to begin with, the Administrator’s voice carries easier and Kidman hears the name “Agent Hanson.”

Her clarity is back and Kidman refocuses, straining her ears to pick up the conversation. If the Administrator had wanted to send Myra in, Kidman had been sure he would have done it before now. There’s no use to it now unless his goal is to throw Sebastian off his game, which that would certainly do…

Chills creep up Kidman’s spine. What reason would the Administrator have to do that? What possible reason could he think of to reunite a family within the confines of STEM, a family scarred by the actions of Mobius as well as another, who was currently  _ also _ inside STEM?

_ Oh, no. Oh, fuck fuck fuck! _

The realization hits Kidman like a train. Her previous lethargy disappears and her heart hammers in her chest.

He’s going to pull the plug. That is the only conclusion Kidman can make. He’s going to erase the entire incident, all of it, and everyone inside. And she… she can’t let that happen--she just can’t. Her fingers itch for the communicator, but she stills the movement. What good would that do? The Administrator can hear her. He can see her input into the command terminal. She can’t warn Sebastian. He’s unreachable. But...

“Sir?” Kidman perks up from her slump and swivels in her chair. She casts her eyes respectfully down to the stairs that lead to the Administrator’s seat; she wants to seem tired. His constant low chattering stops and she feels his gaze on her, crushing.

“What is it, Agent Kidman?”

“I’m feeling a little groggy, sir. Would you mind if I went to get a cup of coffee?”

“I’ll have some brought in.”

_ Shit. _

“I was going to get it on the way back from the restroom, sir.”

The Administrator scoffs and Kidman’s gaze is just high enough to see him wave his hand dismissively. He says, “Time is of the essence. Go.”

Kidman nods her thanks and bursts from her seat. Just as soon as she leaves someone fills her spot and she tries not to sprint. The doors do not creak as she exits the command room. Kidman takes a moment to walk, calm and cool under the scrutiny of the camera on the ceiling, until she merges off into another hallway and breaks into a run. Instead of right, toward the common area and coffee, she turns left, heading toward Myra Hanson’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *comes in swinging on a vine while issuing a Tarzan-like call that echos for miles*  
> I'm not dead guys! 
> 
> Sorry for the wait. And if you've managed to power through my dry spell, you're one hardcore person and I commend you. We're winding down now. The end is nigh, bitches.

**Author's Note:**

> I refuse to miss the boat this time! I will write a fanfic of something at the time it comes out! And as for the title, yes I was listening to Panic! at the Disco... how did you know?
> 
> If you would like, please leave a kudos and a comment! I would greatly appreciate it my dears!


End file.
